Legends of Blitz
by BEST OC Maker or Gigabyte
Summary: On the distant south of the viking archipelago, another island deals with the threat of dragons. Aron Skarfsson wants to leave a legacy worth remembering and keeping his friends safe. But as old friends become enemies and old enemies become friends, how will the destiny of Blitz and so many other islands change? T for blood, these are vikings after all! HTTYD SYOC
1. Pilot Arc: Pilot

**A/N: Some of you might know me from the digimon fandom or even my original dragons story, Riders of Bliz. If you are interested in a growing world of Vikings and dragons, this is the story for you! More on OC submission at the end of the chapter…**

Aron knew that although it was far safer than the western side of the island. Danger still roamed the forests around Blitz's eastern side, specially since it was easily dwarfed by the winged threats of the west. Alas, when the massive brown bear cornered him, he knew better. The short sword on his waist may have been sharpened, so was the dagger on his boot. But the young man had seen victims of a territorial bear before. Besides he wanted to reach Valhalla with some glory rather than be the guy who died because he didn't realize he had entered a grown brown bear's territory.

Indeed, he had found a cave network on the Northern Woods a few days ago. Being the barely responsible young adult he was, Aron had followed his father through chieftain's duties without complaint in order to earn a day off. Little did he in his youthful rush realize one of the exits of the caves led him right into the territory of a grizzly. While he wasn't one of the unlucky youths forced to grow in the wilds he wasn't a walking mass of fat and muscles. The massive beast poked him with it's wet snout. So much like one of the hunting dogs back in the village, the same hounds that could surround a boar or sometimes scare a grizzly.

Seconds felt like hours with brief moments of near panic whenever the bear poked him. Due to his position, keeping his body in a tight ball the bear soon lost interested and roamed off. Aron remained still until the sound of cracking twigs and rustling of the bear making his way sounded far off. The Viking checked the cave entrance not far off and well hidden to the untrained eye by several bushes. He had only taken a few steps before meeting the mass of brown fur. Checking the woods he soon recognized the area.

He was fairly surprised to say the least. He had gone through the Northern Woods yet now he was on the edge of the Southern Woods right by the grazing fields. A bear making his territory so close to the cattle was bad news, as if there weren't enough predators already. Much to his dismay, the exploration of the cave network had cost him far more time than he had estimated and the walk back would be just as long.

In the distance he could faintly see the smoke rising from the forge. Sighing he checked his pocket, he had found some golden root near the cave. Although far from a herbalist or a healer, he knew Kelda would love them. Alas the traders were supposed to arrive today, and judging the time he wasted on his exploration, maybe they already had. The herbs were very effective on fighting off colds and increasing stamina, something any crew would appreciate and hopefully trade for. Shaking his head and gathering his focus on the present, he climbed over the fence that kept the cattle from wandering into the woods. His dark brown gaze traveled to the north, to his home, to a village named after the island itself, Blitz. Running through the empty fields, he grimly noted that the village's livestock was already being taken to the underground shelters. He was late.

"Hey Aron! Didn't see you at the harbor, what are you doing on the other side of the island?" Speak of the devil, the young woman was his age, 16. She pushed some dark sandy blonde locks of hair out of the way of her light green eyes. On her right hand she carried her argeit, it was similar to a spear, but with a longer curved cutting edge attached to the side rather than at the center of the weapon's wooden form. Men or women, Sea Reapers carried some sort of weapon at all times.

"Long story, did the traders arrive yet?" Aron asked adjusting his belt. It the scabbard had been dislodged when he had rolled into the ground. While his own dark brown hair didn't cover his vision, he did push it sideways away from his forehead. Kelda looked at him in disbelief, using her left hand to shield her eyes she looked into the skies, looking for the sun.

"They arrived like... Four or three hours ago give or take, where did you go?" Kelda questioned but Aron had already ran past her. Kelda just looked annoyed at his direction for a moment, then she ran after him. She had already helped her parents with the day's harvest and her sister was somewhere in the village, might as well see what her friend would find. Both of them ran past the wooden houses, often decorated with carved heads of animals like wolves or bears. Going through normal houses and special locations such as the smithy or the butcher shop without batting an eye. Finally, they reached the traders' location.

Blitz Harbor was formed from a bay on the northeastern part of the town. Aron looked past the smaller wolfships, soon catching sight of a new ship had docked. Wow, Viking ships were rarely big, but this one… he heard some of the elders describing it before, a galleon! The massive ship had been anchored but barely fit. Thankfully Blitz had a special docking area for ships larger than the usual ones. Aron's wonder soon turned to surprise as he saw the symbol painted on all three of the massive vessel's sails. A simple black bear head, painted black with the exception of the red eye and fangs. The Bearhides lived on an island not far away, but like the Sea Reapers, they only had wolfships. At least until recently.

"Amazing isn't she? The previous owners called it God's Will, I found a better name for it, Loki's Pride," A nearby laugh caught Aron's attention. Turning his gaze, he noticed the large man talking to some youths. A large man, definitely past his youth yet on the top of adulthood. Stormy blue eyes and a bright orange hair like a growing flame. A long two handed sword was strapped to his belt. The ornate weapon was very different from its rough owner.

"That's Beowulf the Vicious, I heard he had left Grizzly Island for a prolonged raid a few months ago, to think he actually captured such ship..." Kelda finally caught up. Her eyes going straight to the massive galleon. Whereas Aron wondered about it's interior, Kelda grimly took note of the people tied around the masts. Blitz didn't allow slavery, but many other tribes did, she couldn't help but pity the poor souls, Bearhide Vikings often claimed not often treasure, but the freedom of their southern victims. Before she could do something stupid like try freeing them, Aron took back her attention towards a more common wolfship. Going on the opposite direction of Loki's Pride, they soon found it. With the head of a ram carved on the front, the Battering Ram was slightly larger than raiding ships.

"Ah Aron! I wondered where you were, bartering with someone other than your favorite trader?" A plump man leaving adulthood waved with a hearty laugh. While the whitening beard and the mix of wisdom and humor in his eyes revealed his advanced age, yet, he was far from frail. Decades of holding sails, rowing and the far more than occasional brawls left him with a rough and powerful build. Even for Aron, who had reached 16 only a few weeks ago and was already considered to be growing swiftly, the trader towered over him.

"I was checking some recent discoveries back in the Northern Woods so you could say I'm late Hagar, can I interest you with Golden Root?" Aron asked, showing the herb. The trader, Hagar All Saw looked at the herb curiously. Truth to be told he would much rather have some old treasure or something he could trade in the next few weeks. Alas, he had a liking to the boy and the herb and to worsen his choice, a nearby crewmember sneezed. Kelda scowled, she knew how much Grisa, the village's healer, would appreciate the uncommon herb. Yet it was Aron's to trade, judging the recent sneeze, maybe it was for the best.

"Well lad, I got something a few weeks ago, it's no ancient treasure or map, but I believe your pa or Vikar might be interested…" Hagar decided as he walked to the other end of the ship, far past the usual odd weapons and trinkets Aron usually took an interest on. After a few moments, Hagar retrieved a long… spear? No it was even if just slightly shorter than one. Unlike a spear, it was made of a single piece of metal, with an arrow tip formed head and several barbs covering a fourth of it. A thin metallic wire was attached to the opposite end. The wire was then connected to a round object upon which it spun over several times.

"I got this from the far northeast, a harpoon they called it, used to hunt whales," Hagar revealed, rather than swing it like a sword or spin it around like a spear, he merely stabbed the air with it a few times. Aron and Kelda gave Hagar a cynical look, whales weren't that common, but the young man had been sure they were unstoppable. At least until a few moments ago. Kelda just wondered how a harpoon would be wielded in comparison to her own weapon.

"Trust me lad, I was in the distant east when I spotted an odd looking crew using some these. If I wasn't such a great dealer I doubt they would have given me one, when I saw it, I knew Blitz could use one considering your… pest problems," Hagar described as he offered the strange weapon. Aron took it, taking note of every detail, from the small rust marks to the tiny dents on the edges. Aron had never seen one before, if it proved as capable as Hagar said, maybe Vikar could try making more. The skilled smithy rarely denied a challenge. Before he could agree, an unmistakable sound caught not only his, but the attention of every Viking on the island. Aron realized that in his rush from the woods to the docks he had miscalculated. The sun had already fallen beneath the Guardian Peaks.

"I guess we're about to see how well this thing handles pests," Aron decided as he saw the mass of shadows flying over the mountains. There was no mistaking the scourge of Vikings, the beasts that raided the raiders. Dragons…

 **A/N: Well there is our protagonist, Aron Skarfsson. As I said on the start, I will be accepting OCs for this. If you want to submit one send me a PM and I'll give you the form. Next chapter we will start seeing the dragons that live in Blitz and SPOILER ALERT: While taming dragons will only come later, it won't be the cliché way either… Don't forget to drop a review! I really appreciate the support and display of interest!**

 **PS: First OC from POMForever, Kelda!**


	2. Pilot Arc: Raid Night

**Warning: Chapter will include full Viking vs. Bloodshed. I'll try not to go overboard and I'll appreciate any critics concerning the upcoming struggles. Blood, incineration and other types of T rated violence and death will occur. What can I say? I rated the story T for a reason.**

 **A/N: Also for those who might be worrying, I'm still accepting OCs.**

Aron was no priest, yet every time he witnessed the malicious creatures from the western side of the island strike, he felt for sure Ragnarok had commenced. After centuries facing dragons, Sea Reapers had taken a custom of throwing buckets of water at their homes shortly before dusk. Wet wood didn't burn, yet houses so large, somewhere was never wet enough to avoid the growing fires. Aron had lost Kelda in the midst of the chaos. She was likely making her way south to the stocks, her parents and other farmers would need all the help they could get to keep the dragons at bay.

Truthfully, most Vikings joined the battles at the entrance of Freya's Nest. It was a large natural cave with not so natural gates. It was big enough to keep the harvests, the livestock and those too young to fight. Dragons were cunning creatures, they knew full well facing the entire tribe head on meant death, so even as some attempted to break through the defenses, others scattered through the village, causing as much chaos as possible.

The young heir squinted amidst the smoke and fire as he began to make out their shapes. Although slightly smaller than a bear and with pathetic forearms, MoldRuffles were one of the most common threats. Their back legs and large wings granted them great agility and speed, they also possessed some sort of communication that allowed them to warn others of their kind of coming dangers, or easy pickings. Aron's usual weapon when handling dragons was a spear, yet there was no time to retrieve it. Instead he hoped the harpoon proved as effective as old Hagar had described. If not, then the moldruffle would complete the bear's work.

While most of the dragons were flying south to Freya's Nest at the Grazing Fields, multiple MoldRuffles descended upon the village. Their orange and red scales almost camouflaging them, but the flaming wings were unmistakable. The dragons were smart, rather than continue firing fireballs, they fanned their tails, creating shorts gusts that increased the intensity of already burning locations. One was within throwing distance. A pale yellow moldruffle with dark red markings. It hadn't noticed him yet.

"Let's see if this thing works as well as it's advertised..." Aron had a chance to try out the harpoon, due to the unusual weight the weapon and the smoke and fire raging around him, his aim was off. The young Viking had been hoping for a clear kill, yet he just managed to pierce it's wing and dig into the dragon's ribs. Before he could even think vicious yellow eyes met him. The hatred and intelligence in them was unlike any beast. The swift creature rushed towards him with a gaping maw. Aron was about to draw his sword when suddenly, a massive wall of scales and claws crashed through the burning house and fell onto the moldruffle.

"Alright ye oversized serpent!" The furious insult came from one of the greatest minds of the tribe. Grapple Grounders were another common threat to the village. Unlike MoldRuffles, they fired powerful plasma blasts that while seldom started fires, caused countless explosions. Their powerful muscled forms made them natural wrestlers, only the bravest of the tribe dared fighting them on their terms. One of the few Vikings rich enough to wear a full set of plate and capable to use it, wielding an ancient short sword. Yet the legendary weapon was still in it's sheath, the tall and bulky man had succeeded in forcing the dragon's massive head to the ground. He wasn't just Aron's inspiration and personal hero, but also the chieftain of the Sea Reapers. Skarf of Many Titles, The Grappler, The Furious, The Honorable and specially...

"Father!" Aron realized how much one word mattered. The warning came just in time, the grapple grounder's tail was snapping at an odd angle to slam into the plate wearer. Skarf used his free arm to unsheathe Pathmaker, a sword forged and wielded by Blitz's first chieftain. Using the sword weapon he didn't waste time, the sharp blade digging into the grounder's skull, going straight through it's eye. At the same time Skarf ducked, the dying dragon's tail sweeping over his helm with momentum before dropping at an awkward angle. Aron had long lost any sort of queasiness, two dragons down. Two less monsters terrorizing his home. Beneath the metal visor of the helmet, a set of dark brown eyes matching Aron's looked over him. By now Aron's leather hood and vest were caked in ashes. Yet it was no time for a father, much less for a chieftain, to comment on it.

"Were you going for the Moldruffle?" The heavy armor rang as the Sea Reaper's chieftain moved closer to his son. Aron nodded, he didn't need to see through the metal, Skarf was displeased. Aron retrieved the harpoon, turns out a spear inside the house had impaled the moldruffle. Previously cunning yellow eyes were now empty orbs. The young Viking inspected the weapon, surprisingly, it was intact aside from the still wet dragon blood. A quick swing made the wet blood splatter off the weapon and on the Grapple Grounder's corpse.

"I just got news that that damned Sword Stealer is trying to attack the forge, that aside we're lucky, that Skrill is nowhere to be found tonight. Keep an eye out though," Skarf's report did little to ease Aron's worries. About two moon cycles ago a dragon that channeled lightning bolts had started attacking the village. At first due to the nature of the attacks and the dragon's maneuverability on air, it was assumed to be lone ShockJaw, semi-aquatic dragons who tended to attack in groups. Yet during raids the electric dragon claimed sheep and after a few weeks one of the warriors got a good look at it. Skarf had his forces on lookout yet while the notorious Strike Class was nowhere to be found. The Sword Stealer was another far more serious threat. Upon reaching the southern half of the village Aron broke from his father, while the chieftain would go to help the supplies, it was time to see what a harpoon could do against Blitz's most notorious raider. Aron prayed to Njord that the Sword Stealer's magnetic skin wouldn't make him lose his newest weapon.

Making his way past the butcher shop, Aron barely acknowledge the battle. Unlike the rest of the village, the shop and it's surroundings weren't just burning. Shards of ice and large formations had formed all over. A small group formed a shield wall and kept the attackers at bay. If MoldRuffles were like the counterparts of wolves in the dragon world, then the fierce Shivertooth were like the large cats of legend. Their lithe forms were complemented by the sharpest set of teeth and claws in all of Blitz. While they could easily freeze their victims, these agile predators preferred to tear them apart. According to Kelda, at least half of all stitches applied by the village's healers were caused by them.

Finally Aron reached the forge. While it was built amidst other buildings, there was a larger distance between it and the houses. Vikar had kept his position as blacksmith for over 20 years, only two fires ever broke out of that forge in that time. Yet now, that slightly isolated building was being guarded by two dozen warriors. Yet not all of them were Sea Reapers. Aron soon began to make out the dark green vests of their partner tribe, the Outlanders were considered wild folk by the more superstitious Sea Reapers, living amidst the woods and selling game to the village. Over the years they mastered the use of transforming stones and sticks into deadly weapons.

Aron soon saw why no shield wall had been erected like back in the Butcher Shop. Instead the Vikings ran amidst the dragon's legs. While a moldruffle or a ShiverTooth were somewhere between a wolf and a bear in terms of height and bulk, a grapple grounder could be considered big enough to fill a hut. A sword stealer? Standing on two legs like a bird of prey, this dragon was covered from snout to tailtip in metal. Several buckler shields decorated it's chest. Aron paused, he could already feel the harpoon reacting to the massive dragon's magnetic skin. Indeed, unlike other dragons, Sword Stealers seldom targeted the village's livestock. They targeted any areas where large amounts of metal could be found. The blacksmith was one of their favorite targets.

The most fearsome detail of a Sword Stealer was their body, their powerful breath melded different items together to form a single fluid set of armor. A few edges or spikes from stolen arrowheads were usually seen emerging from the mesh of molten iron and steel. That aside, their magma orange eyes and maw gave them the visage of a beast of Muspellheim. Flapping their massive wings the behemoth had recoiled after one Viking successfully punched a reinforced wooden pike through the links of armor beneath it's left wing and dug it into it's ribcage. Although in pain, the Sword Stealer turned it's cruel eyes upon the Viking and with a triumphant roar, released a stream of bright flame before anyone could shield their eyes. The intense light causing many, including Aron, to be disoriented. But even before his sight fully returned, he knew that the flash meant far more than a moment of blindness, at least for the sword stealer's primary target.

"Ranuld!" A distraught cry cut through the chaos as arrowheads punched into the Sword Stealer's side. Aron soon recognized the archer, at night with his mottled green hood down, the snowy white hair and ivory skin on his furious face was evident. While 16 like Aron, the boy wore an attire akin to other Outlanders, yet with far more coverage. Including odd darkened goggles that protected him against the flash of the Sword Stealer's fire or the brightness of sunlight. Erron Lindstrom was an oddity even amidst the Outlanders, yet his humor, wit and daring made him a common sight in the village. The arrows left deep impact marks over the Sword Stealer's side, alas the hulking beast was more focused on the other Vikings running around beneath it. More pikes broke through the dragon's body and soon some arrows succeeded in digging into the weak flesh beneath the armor.

Aron knew the battle was over now. Sword Stealers were the bullies of dragon kind, their armored bodies allowing them a powerful edge in combat. Yet as soon as their beloved armor was damaged, they took off like scared seagulls. The powerful flaps of the armored beast's wings were strong enough to push Vikings back, fan nearby fires and even throw arrows off course. With a final burst of blinding flames, the Sword Stealer took off back towards the mountains. Aron was ready to run back and help the butcher shop with the ShiverTooth situation but before he could do so, he barely saw it amidst the chaos of the flames and the darkness of the night. A lone arrow had soared over the flames. Sword Stealers were strong, but slow fliers. A final arrow pierced one of the broken links on the armor.

The other Vikings cheered as the massive dragon sagged and barely kept himself aloft. The beast's agonized cries were music to their ears. Aron however felt pity, seeing such a prideful monster reduced to such a state felt... Sea Reapers had a clear honor code, defeat foe, never humiliate it. Alas in the midst of fighting against dragons, such rules tended to be forgotten alongside any semblance of peace. The archer, Erron was crouching by half burnt rags and... Aron realized the rags were in fact what remained of a sturdy leather and light chainmail armor, to his horror, the flesh had been burnt into oblivion but charred bones remained, clattered around.

"Ranuld, The Headfirst, I shall send some game to Valhalla soon," Erron had a hand on his knee as he looked at the pitiful remains. Aron sighed, after so long facing dragons, it had become fairly common to see crippling injuries, battle scars and even disfigured faces. Yet Vikings were a stubborn lot, death didn't come to them easily. Alas no amount of courage or glory can stop fire.

"We need to check the situation on the livestock, Ranuld's sacrifice won't be in vain," Aron put a hand over Erron's shoulder. The young albino was difficult to befriend, yet he bore a deep respect and care for every friend he made. Aron was proud to consider him a friend, yet in the midst of chaos, with the other vikings already scattering to help fight the fires or defend the livestock, Erron didn't need a friend, he needed a leader. Instead of the usual snide remark of sarcastic comment, the archer just met Aron with his eyes nodded. Many superstitious Vikings considered the unique reddish irises as a curse. Aron didn't care, for an aim like Erron's he'd take a set of pink eyes anytime. There would be time to mourn later, now, it was time to make sure no more lives would be mourned.

Fighting their way to Freya's Nest, Aron and Erron were soon stopped by several Vikings. The huge men and women ran away from the nest like... Vikings weren't that easy to scare. Indeed, while they ran in fear, wild smiles spread on their faces. Luckily Erron's sharp eyes caught sight of Kelda, who once more pushed golden locks out of her green eyes. Aron took her arm with his free right hand. The girl turned angrily before recognizing them.

"What's going on?!" Aron asked, having to shout to be heard over the dragons' roars, the crackling of the flames, the battle cries of Vikings and the maddened howls no sane man could produce. Wait what? Kelda just smiled as recognized crossed the two boy's visages. Despite common sense and even the more reckless Viking sense telling them to run the other way, the curious teens made their way to the fields. Like the village, it burned, and at the entrance of the cave, there they were.

"Berserkers," Erron spoke in a short gasp of fear and admiration. With the darkness of the night and the light of the fires, the massive men fighting dragons while wearing only short jerkins and large bear fur cloaks. They carried curved axes on each hand, at the hands of a calmer Viking they could be used to trip opponents and perform masterful cuts. At a berserker's? Even as they watched one of them cleaved a grapple grounder's neck in half. Another was covered by gnawing ShiverTooth yet managed to throw them back before throwing one of his axes at a ShiverTooth's skull. Skarf once told Aron that no training would prepare a berserker, only the raging battlefield.

"This is bad, they don't even realize it," Aron realized, Erron and Kelda looked confused at their friend. Yet soon they noticed it, the dragons the berserkers focused on we're retreating, and leading the raging madmen further and further away from the nest. The entrance was only large enough for the smaller dragons. Soon ShiverTooth and MoldRuffles broke through the doors. The cries of livestock could barely be heard over the chaos.

"Erron go get my father or someone who can get everyone's attention, the berserkers don't even realize they're being tricked. Kelda, I hope you left your sanity at home because..." Aron whispered, barely loud enough to be heard over the cries that spread through the island. Erron had shot off into a run back to the forge, most Vikings would be gathering around it. Kelda smiled as she heard Aron's next words, apparently she had left her sanity at home. As they sprinted to the cave, they noticed another teen was already trying to keep the dragons at bay.

"Sweyn?" Kelda questioned aloud as her atgeir pierced an unsuspecting ShiverTooth's skull. A stocky young man was fending off a hungry moldruffle with nothing but a seax. A bow and quiver were over his shoulders. Aron barely recalled the young man, he was their age, with chocolate brown eyes slightly brighter than Aron's. The moldruffle snarled at the approaching teens. His mistake, the second his eyes were off Sweyn the 16 year old rushed forth and sunk the seax into the side of the dragon's head, the blood erupting forth signaled a cut artery.

Soon all three teens had their backs to some very frightened livestock and faced more dragons. The size of the opening meant only one or two dragons could come in at the same time. Aron was glad for the wire on the harpoon's bottom, it made it far easier to throw and retrieve the weapon in record time. Sweyn had unslung his bow and as soon as a dragon ducked past Kelda's atgeir or blocked Aron's harpoon, they discovered an arrow between their cold predatory eyes. Soon the dragons got smarter, moldruffle's throats lit up with charging fireballs. More arrows through it's throats.

"Get back!" Aron barely had time to shout when a ShiverTooth fired a burst of icy air, as soon as it made contact with the ground where Kelda had been standing seconds earlier, it erupted into icy spikes. Cornered, the three teens had no choice but protect themselves as the dragons dove in, took livestock frozen in fear and flew off. Sweyn cursed as his bow fell and was crushed by a scared yak's hooves. The atgeir, harpoon and seax barely fended off a hungry ShiverTooth. While they struggled, more and more livestock was lost. Finally, as almost half of the livestock was lost, a battle cry rang over the roars of predators and the cries of prey. Aron was never so glad to see an army of sweaty men with half burnt beards break their way through dragons to save him, or the pigs. Although the animals continued to be disturbed, they were no longer carried off.

Aron could barely recall when Sweyn disappeared, or when his father looked down on him and the chaos lessened. It was all a blur, Kelda had put a hand on his shoulder and was saying something, she sounded really worried. Then Aron saw it, a shard of ice was stuck on his left side beneath his ribs. Then he blacked out.

 **A/N: So, now you guys know how tense the Viking V. Dragon war is in Blitz. I was planing to stretch the chapter to cover a few more events but I decided to leave that to next chapter. Two new OCs have been revealed, Erron Lindstrom from Flame Fate Zero and Sweyn Ironsides from Brokula. On other news, I finally completed the map of Blitz, you guys can see it on my Devianart page. Link is on my profile. Again, don't forget to drop a review and tell me what you guys thought of the first battle, large scale action scenes are something I'm still learning.**


	3. Pilot Arc: Recovery and betryal

**A/N: For those interested, yes I'm still accepting OCs. This chapter I'm going to reveal more about the setting and culture of the Sea Reapers. Also this chapter, specially by it's end, I'm trying to increase dialogue without taking away the descriptions, if you guys get any thoughts on that contact me. Always trying to improve and feedback is one of the best ways to get pointers.**

"And that's how you replace a severed arm!" Never had Aron heard something so disturbing as he slipped from an already forgotten dream. He immediately decided he was neither at home nor at the forest. The old female voice reminded him of a segull's cry, wait severed arm?! Aron's eyes snapped open as he rolled to his right side, tossed his legs over the makeshift bed and used momentum to throw his body into an upright position. He immediately regretted his decision.

"Bastard of Loki!" The Sea Reaper Heir cursed as he felt a sharp pain on his abdomen. Amidst the flash of pain, he noticed he was on Valka's hut. Soon he felt two pairs of strong hands pushing back to a lying position on his bed. Kelda was there, and so was the village's primary healer, Valka the Heavenly. It was her voice that had awoken him, Valka may have been one of the most beautiful Sea Reapers in her youth. Now with more crinkles anyone dared to count and a hunched back, her arms were long and agile, already applying a green paste to Aron's abdomen. The pain subsisted slightly. Finally, he realized both his arms were still attached, the same couldn't be said for a nearby Bearhide. Beowulf? Indeed the Bearhide chieftain now lacked half of his forearm, in it's place was wooden stave not much longer than his other forearm. Several think hooks were attached to it's sides(Like a Maori Sword's blade). With a chill, Aron realized those were the claws and teeth of a ShiverTooth.

"That first ShiverTooth's ice blast had splintered shards, a few had made their way to your abdomen," Kelda explained as Aron returned his gaze to meet hers. While Valka was grumbling and spreading the green paste Kelda filled him in on what he missed. Thankfully he had been misled by the darkness in Freya's Nest. Not half, but a fourth of the livestock had been claimed. By the time his father had taken carried his bleeding form to his current location, the dragons had already fled over the mountains.

"Crazy, Erron and that guy Sweyn fired some arrows after them, took down a ShockJaw," Kelda sat on the side of the bed. Valka had ran off to check on patients on the other huts. Even now her seagull like voice occasionally. Man that woman could scream about injuries like a banshee. After finishing telling about some of the other feats that occurred during the raid, she ran off to help Valka.

"What in the name of Odin...?" Beowulf had awakened, the huge man inspected his newest arm and after bloodying a finger just by touching one of the razor sharp claws, a cruel smile spread across his fiery beard. Aron took note that his own harpoon, short sword were on a desk by the side of his bed. Beneath them was his shirt and double layered coat folded carefully. His metal gauntlets on their left. Aron didn't dare to twist his body yet but he was pretty sure his armored boots were on the ground by the bed. Even Beowulf's broadsword was by the chieftain's own bed. As if the razor prosthetic wasn't enough. Indeed the Bearhide chieftain only now took in his unfamiliar surroundings.

"We're in the Islet of Frey, it's where our wounded are cared for and home to the tribes' healers gather and research," Aron explained. Beowulf frowned as he looked through an open window. Indeed, after a few meters of grass. The lake of Heimdall's Tears could be seen separating them and the Grazing Fields. In the distance, the smoke rising over the forge revealed that Vikar was back at work. The livestock was free again, yaks, sheep and goats grazed the small plains without worry. Their fear during the previous night replaced by the usual mild disinterest in anything that wasn't edible.

"And my men?" Beowulf questioned as he inspected his new prosthetic. Aron had heard from Kelda that the Bearhide chieftain and his forces, few and as foreign as they were, had helped to fight off the dragons on the north of the village. Supposedly Beowulf had single handedly fought off not one, but several ShiverTooth. Against those snapping jaws and wicked claws, losing just an arm was likely a victory. Nevertheless the huge man looked proudly at each individual claw. Even the usual Viking could be shaken by the loss of a limb, the appreciation on Beowulf's eyes showed more strength than the howl of a bloodthirsty berserker.

"I don't know, but but only the healers and the injured are allowed on Frey's Islet," Aron replied. Beowulf nodded before jumping off his bed. Aside from his lost arm he didn't look injured anywhere else, quickly clapping a thick fur cloak on his shoulders and setting his broadsword's sheath over his shoulder. He offered his remaining hand to Aron.

"If I take too long I'll have problems with that troublemaker, I hope to see you at tonight's ceremony Aron Skarfsson," Beowulf spoke in a calmer, colder tone. After a moment, Aron managed to catch the hulking man's grip. With a decisive nod, Beowulf left the hut. Aron was never really a big fan of silence, experience had taught him that the lack of sound was usually the most dangerous sound was none at all. Yet soon more shouts from outside broke it. Aron sighed, relieving the previous night. It had been his fourth, maybe fifth time he actively participated in a raid instead of hiding with the kids. He had expected to get used to it by now, honestly? He could faintly hear the cries of anguish and the roar of beasts from his memory.

The day passed quickly enough, Aron was glad when Valka removed the bandages and cleaned off the remaining paste. The old woman shook her head when she pointed at a long red gash starting on the left of his belly button and trailing down diagonally until disappearing close to his leg. Aron frowned, he had seen scars before. Honestly considering the size of the shard, he was glad he was still alive. But his father had no scars, a fierce warrior held many scars, a wise warrior was too good to get them. Thankfully he wasn't feeling any pain when he rolled to his side and stood up. Looking through the window, he could see the faint fires starting to light up as the skies darkened.

"Thank you for your work healer," Aron told the old woman with as much respect as he could muster. Tired and slightly frustrated old blue eyes meet his, the woman shook her head and helped him to the door.

Aron breathed in the fresh air. The Islet of Frey was a sight to behold, 4 other huts stood. By their sides several herbs were grown and what little space was left was occupied by fresh green grass. A wooden bridge connected the islet to the rest of Blitz. It was almost peaceful, only if a strident voice didn't break the calm atmosphere. Sadly, it did.

"Kelda! Make sure he doesn't collapse and dies out in the fields, I have enough to hear from Skarf without having him fret over his brat!" The elder's seagull-like voice was loud enough to hear throughout the islet. While being heard from one end to another was usually useful to pass information concerning patients, Aron was pretty sure the old lady liked to scream. Kelda left the nearest hut, carrying a large group of wet makeshift towels and unceremoniously dumping them on a basket before running up to meet with them. Kelda gave Aron an amused smile. Some of the other Vikings believed Valka's tongue to be sharper than any weapon. Aron thought it was her throat that was the real weapon.

"Right away elder," Kelda replied with a respectful tone. The young woman owed a lot to the grumpy but capable elder. Walking alongside Aron, they soon crossed the bridge and over the fields. Silence hang over them, they had failed to protect the livestock. Kelda had already supplied him with information concerning what he missed. Finally they reached the village, going past the forge and to another, larger building. It only had one level, but it was large enough to fit in four large Viking homes. Above the doors was a sign, a boar's head and a name written in black paint: The Pork's Eye.

"Alright, let's see how this goes," Aron sighed as he pushed open the doors. Blitz didn't have a natural structure to transform into a mead hall. However two generations ago a widow, Grimna the Feaster had opened up the only restaurant in the island. Honestly it was the mix between a bar and an actual restaurant. It was also used as the village's meeting place. Inside the fireplace at it's center burned bright. Vikings sat spread all over, Aron's father was at the bar table, the position usually used during the tribe's meetings. Aron and Kelda found no path amidst the walls of muscle and sharp objects. So instead they remained near the door. The duo soon noticed Beowulf and another lankier man, Gundrun Lindstrom, chief of the Outlanders. They looked like they were arguing. Of what, Aron and Kelda could only guess. Finally, Beowulf slammed his weaponized arm on the table and walked away, the few Bearhides present following him as they made their way through the crowd. Aron and Kelda got out of the way as the raiders headed for the door behind them. Before leaving, Beowulf put a hand on Aron's shoulder.

"Sorry things will have to go this way," Beowulf spoke softly so only Aron could hear. Then he left, Aron wasn't sure what the Bearhide chieftain said but one of his men, a youth about a year older than Aron with sunken bloodshot eyes and smirked before following his chieftain. Aron turned back to his father as the Bearhides closed the door behind them. Skarf and Grundrum were whispering to each other for a few more seconds before Skarf finally stood up and raised his mug. The Sea Reapers and Outlanders assembled raised mugs or chicken legs in response. Skarf left the stool he was using and took a deep breath. Aron couldn't help but sigh, a long speech was coming.

"Citizens of Blitz! Last night the dragons struck, their fury ravaged our homes and their hunger stole our meals!" Skarf began, meeting the gazes of crowd.

"However when the berserkers' weren't enough, a single Outlander succeeded in bringing us together to save our livestock! Erron Lindstrom! Step forth!" The Sea Reaper chieftain spoke neutrally, but loud and clear. On the corner of the restaurant, a group of massive man with axes on their backs and bucklers that had been gnawed on looked down in shame. They were more than enough, but they were foolish enough to get baited away from their duty. After a few moments of silence, Erron made his way through the crowd. Indoors and without the risk of a dragon's blinding breath, the goggles were resting around his neck. The white haired teen's reddish eyes turned to Skarf, he was fidgeting as the Sea Reaper chieftain beckoned him forth.

"For crossing half the village to gather the forces required and to lead them swiftly through the flames, I believe it's time for you to earn your title!" Skarf's words brought a mixture of gasps and cheers. Each Sea Reaper and Outlander were given a title after they did something incredible. Usually their first title would stick with them for as long as they lived, a reminder of past achievements or in the case of others like Valka, a reminder of better days. Either way, Erron did what he could to straighten his posture.

"Sea Reapers! Outlanders! Raise your mugs to Erron... The Swift!" Skarf called as he raised his mug in a toast. Those with mugs raised it in return, but most of present islanders cheered the name. Aron and Kelda among them. As the cheering died down, Skarf raised his hand for silence.

"However, Erron wasn't our only hero that night..." Skarf continued. Kelda turned to Aron, they were the ones who kept the dragons at bay. Sweyn was nowhere in sight but surely he would be present. Yet Skarf's eyes met neither Aron's nor Kelda's.

"Hamuld Starksson! Last night, amidst the fire and chaos, you saved the village's young and killed several of our enemies! Citizens of Blitz! Raise your mugs for Hamuld... The Butcher!" Skarf declared. A young man wearing an apron over thick leather clothes stepped forth surprised. Aron raised his brow, Hamuld, better known as Ham amidst friends, was the son of Stark the Bloodied, the local butcher. Until now Aron wasn't sure his father had a sense of humor. Either way, he was happy for the huge Viking. Kelda frowned before grudgingly joining the cheer. Ham and Erron looked proudly as their names were called. Skarf his arm to die down the cheers.

"Now it's time for the war council, I ask that those who have yet to complete their training at the Eye to leave," Skarf's words were met with mild annoyance. Several younger children dashed out, eager to escape the restaurant's confines and their parents' gaze. Some of the older teens, including Aron and Kelda frowned slightly before leaving. Arguing with the chieftain in public and disobeying the rules usually involved humiliating punishments. Titles may be important, but to prove yourself in the eyes of Ragnar the Legend and complete his training at the mysterious island off Blitz's coast. That's what it took to get accepted as an adult.

"Why didn't we earn titles? I should be Kelda the Protector by now," Kelda muttered as she pushed some locks of hair out of her eyes. They had joined with Erron and Ham as they walked to the northern beach.

"At least you're not stuck with a title that's ambiguous, the butcher? Now merchants will think my great deed was chopping a pig in half and selling it's entrails," The huge teen muttered, his frustration was clear now that they were out of public view.

"Isn't that what you do?" Kelda pointed out offhandedly, Ham snorted and elbowed her on the side. She elbowed him back. Erron just looked at them with amusement.

"Still though, we did fight off a load of those scaly demons, no offense Erron but you'd never gather everyone so swiftly in time to save the livestock if we didn't keep the dragons at bay," Kelda decided as they reached the northernmost part of the island. The sand stretched on as far as they could see in the dark night. The song of crashing waves signaling the existence of saltwater nearby.

"I was down, my dad likely doesn't want us entitled after one of us went down," Aron decided, unconsciously touching his new scar. Kelda's eyes softened slightly as the four of them sat down on a bank of sand. Before they could say anything to cheer Aron or defend Skarf's choice, Ham crumpled, falling on the sand face first. The other three jumped up, ignoring the sand sticking to their pants and cloaks. From the darkness, two mores projectiles flew, they ducked and scattered confused, relying on instinct rather than logic. Who would attack them? Erron had left his bow elsewhere, but drew on his dagger.

"Who is it?!" Aron shouted as his eyes darted out into the darkness. Skarf and the adults would likely be stuck discussing new ways to deal with the dragons for a few more hours. The other teens and kids were scattered doing who knows what. They were on their own. Soon, two hulking shapes ran out of the darkness like rampaging yaks. Kelda gasped as the wind was knocked out of her. Before she could stand up and impale her foe with her atgeir, a blunt weapon slammed on her head knocking her out cold. Aron drew his sword and ran to attack their new foe. Erron tried to follow but another muscle head took him down. The last thing he saw was a cruel grin as a hammer tapped the side of his head.

Aron swung his sword in an arc, but his opponent was faster, jumping out of the way before drawing something. It was dark, Aron had a hard time discerning his foe, much less the small weapon. Then he felt a sharp pain as something hit the back of his neck. He froze and fell to his knees in the sand.

"Sorry it had to be this way," A voice said with a tone of sarcasm as Aron blacked out, his last sight being a set of sunken bloodshot emerald eyes...

 **A/N: Alright! Now the first arc is kicking in! Any thoughts you guys want to share or questions you want answered just review. As I said before dragon training isn't happening just yet but be warned, this chapter's ending just kick started a series of events you guys will hopefully love. Anyways, onto the next chapter, see ya!**


	4. Grisly Island Arc: Aboard Loki's Pride

**A/N: After re-reading previous chapters, I'm considering taking in a beta reader to help me out. Correct some grammar and fix parts where I forgotten to add words, discuss future ideas, etc. If anyone's interested send me a PM. Also, for those interested, I'm still accepting OCs.**

The swaying of the floor and the dampened sounds of crashing waves soon brought him into self awareness. Aron clutched his head as he stood up, taking in his surroundings. Trapped, Aron had only seen the thick iron bars of prisons back in the Eye of Odin. There they were used to keep captured dragons in check until they could be used to teach younger Vikings. In this strange, shaking place, they kept him locked up.

"Looks who's finally awake," A raspy voice caught Aron's attention. Indeed, it looked like the bars not only covered the entrance, including an area with hinges signaling a locked door, but the wall to his side was covered by another set of bars. Behind them, an old man with scornful light gray eyes glared at him. Several other young men and women were stuck in the same cage and to Aron's surprise, more bars separated them from others and others and others. All shared pale complexions, strong builds and eyes with varying shades of grey. Aron soon recognized them, gray eyes and thick blonde hair, southerners. Enslaved southerners which meant...

"We're in Loki's Pride aren't we?" Aron asked, his mind raced. Why? Surely Beowulf knew kidnapping a chieftain's son meant war. At least, that's how it worked with most chieftains, his father... Aron shook his head, he admired the man, but he also knew exactly what he would tell him in such situation. You got kidnapped, now fight your way out and show the world how strong you are. Rolling his eyes as he settled on the corner near the bars, Aron could even hear his father saying it.

"God's Will, your kind has no right renaming a crusader vessel," The old man grumbled. However, many of the other slaves looked down, away, anywhere but at Aron or the old man. Aron had seen the look in their eyes before. The look of a maimed wolf surrounded by hunting dogs, the tired eyes of an outmatched wild dragon. The same look that flashed in the eyes of the moldruffle before a grapple grounder and a house crashed down upon him. The look of utter and absolute defeat, of someone who had given up. Each slave had their thumbs and wrists locked together by thin iron shackles.

"I thought it was called a galleon," Aron questioned. The old man laughed, for the first time a spark of amusement lit up in his nearly white eyes. His frail form moved as he got closer to the bars, the other slaves shuffled to get some distance.

"Yes, this type of ship is known as a galleon, far greater than anything your barbaric kind could ever build. However, this vessel doesn't belong to a wealthy merchant or even our damned King, no, it's property of the crusaders, the greatest heroes of Dumwram!" The old man rambled on, Aron raised a brow in the universal language of having no idea about what the man was talking about. Seeing his confusion, scorn returned to the old man's eyes.

"Does your kind really knows not of my homeland's name? Humph, all the better once the crusaders mobilize and..." The old man began but was stopped by another slave with stormy gray eyes. While the rags the slaves wore tended to diminish them, they seemed to have no effect on the young man. Even his eyes, while defeated, kept a fierce look. They didn't share words, but the old man calmed down and became silent.

"Anyways, I'm not with these guys, I'm a Sea Reaper, we don't raid, at least not in the last few decades," Aron offered. Right now those slaves were the closest thing he had to allies. However, the old man shared the same raised brow Aron had moments ago. If he didn't need their allegiance so badly, he would likely have smirked. Ignorance ran deep in both sides it seemed. Before they could continue, the young man with bloodshot eyes from before entered the corridor. Aron frowned and stood up, those sunken eyes were looking directly at him.

"So you're finally awake, good, last thing we needed was a comatose hostage," The lanky figure took out a set of keys before opening the lock. Aron tensed, his sword and harpoon were nowhere to be seen. What about his friends? Amidst all the southerners, he couldn't see Kelda's crooked nose, nor the frail figure of Erron. What he'd give to see that mixture of fat and muscles known as Ham. Yet it looked like he was only captive who was native to Blitz.

"Come on, chief said not to shackle you but if you want to go catatonic I will drag you," The lanky teen spoke with confidence, the two weapons on his belt could tear an unarmed foe apart easily. They were too short to be swords, but too long to be daggers, somewhere between them. Odd, Bearhides usually preferred the biggest and best made weapons, like Beowulf's broadsword. Yet in comparison to the ancient sword, the daggers looked... Simple. Seeing his captor's growing impatience, Aron stepped out of the cell. The old man lost interest, yet his eyes continued to burn with scorn, the other teen... Was he napping? Confidence like that was rare.

"Come on oh mighty chieftain to be," The lanky Bearhide pushed him, beckoning him to walk in front of him. Aron took note of the familiar weight in his boot. Good, he might not use the dagger with the same proficiency as a sword or as naturally as the harpoon, but it was better than a splinter. Walking slowly, making sure to remember where everything was located, he realize that by the corner of his cell were two sets of stairs. One led down while another led up. The Bearhide forced him up. By the time he got to the next floor, he saw another stair leading further up, but his captor stopped him. Second floor it was.

Aron blinked as the warm light nearly blinded him. The cells were dark, only thin threads of sunlight breaking through the planks. Yet just one floor over, fires burned within glass casings. Bearhides occupied bunks, some looked with admiration and fear towards him... Wait no, at the young man behind him. A few whispered hurriedly but Aron had no time to overhear, the brown haired young man gave him a light push.

"The door at the end, it's the captain's quarters," The Bearhide pointed over Aron's shoulder. The Sea Reaper realized this floor was just like the other. However instead of packed cells, large bunks and sleeping nets had been set up. Weapons of all sorts and strange yet small trophies were on the walls. At the end of the corridor was a dead end, with a single wooden door. Seeing the lack of initiative from the teen with bloodshot eyes, he knocked the door.

"Enter!" Beowulf's voice was unmistakable. The door creaked slightly as Aron twisted the knob and pushed the door. The captain's quarters, as the Bearhide had referred to them, were a mixture of a living room and a bedroom. To Aron's surprise, a large window was at the end. In front of it, sitting before a large table was Beowulf. Several maps and charts were strewn across the table. Two stools were set in the front. At the left corner was a large bed, made of strange fabric Aron had never seen before. On the right side was a large closet and a collection of strange weapons, from long spears, long swords kept in leather sheathes, long spears, irregular shields made entirely of metal and another stranger buckler, with a gauntlet attached at an end, a blade beneath it and a long thin spike erupting from it's center. Southern weapons? Vikar would sell his left hand to get a good look at them, and he was left handed.

"Rhys, wait outside, this is a meeting between leaders," Beowulf addressed the Bearhide with the sunken bloodshot eyes. Aron saw a glimmer of defiance on the boy's eyes, but it was gone a second later. Without a word, the young man named Rhys left the room, closing the door behind him.

"Sit," Beowulf told Aron, beckoning him to the two stools. The Sea Reaper heir took note that the prosthetic Beowulf was given back in the Islet of Frey was still attached. While he was trapped in the ship and by natural rule a captain should never be disobeyed, Aron decided that at this point, any more shows of weakness would bring shame to his tribe. So instead he set at the foot of the bed, ignoring the desire to rest on the overly comfortable mattress. Beowulf raised a brow at his choice, but didn't argue.

"What do you know of my tribe?" Beowulf's question was, to say the least, unexpected. The Bearhide chieftain kept a fully neutral expression, his stormy blue eyes set in stone. Aron wasn't sure what the bold man meant, but it didn't look like Beowulf wanted to explain the question. Aron's gears spun as he tried to figure out if there was a hidden meaning behind the question. Alas, a direct approach would clear things up faster.

"I know you call yourselves Bearhides because in ancient times you hunted bears as a coming of age ceremony. You guys buy and sell slaves and are one of the most frequent raiders amidst Vikings. You also bear a love for rare weapons," Aron knew more, but that pretty much summarized common knowledge about Beowulf's tribe. The chieftain stared at him a little longer, then sighed while adjusting his prosthetic.

"Our home island was once lush like Blitz, with deep forests ridden with grisly bears, Grisly Island's name sake," Beowulf began, he separated a map from the others. A large island of sand and rock formations. Aron squinted slightly to make out the map from the short, yet long distance between the bed and the desk.

"However my ancestors were... Greedy, taking down more trees than Frey could grow and selling them to other islands, eventually, our island began to lose more and more natural resources. Dragons became aggressive and my people had to fight and scramble for supplies, law became a foreign concept as men and women reverted into scared, hungry animals." Beowulf continued, despite his efforts to keep a neutral expression, a hint of anger burnt through the façade. His remaining hand clenched, slightly crumpling the edge of the map.

"I had two older brothers, one destined to become chieftain, so I was given free rein to leave the endless madness of my home and see the world, to see the south," Beowulf continued, pulling another map out of the mess. It was incomplete, detailing a large coast and a few markings representing villages. Most of it was blank, several small villages were crossed out by a rough coal.

"When I saw land that stretched as far as eye could see, rich with supplies and defenseless farmers, I found the solution for my tribe's suffering. So I spent a few weeks learning their language, passing as a curious traveler. Then, I returned home, to my tribe." Beowulf's voice was tinted by anger and nostalgia. Aron titled his head slightly, he had never heard that story. According to some villagers, Bearhides were always a fierce lot, originally he had thought that was because of their brutal methods in raids. Now? He wasn't so sure.

"Turns out my middle brother killed my oldest brother and father before claiming chieftainship. Yet he didn't bring order, no, he thrived in the chaos, surrounding himself with suck ups and muscle headed cowards. When I told him of a new land, full of supplies for all our needs... He didn't care, he preferred to rule over Svartaheim rather than thrive in Alfheim. I had no choice, thankfully the tribe hated him even more than I did." Beowulf continued, Aron wasn't sure if the chieftain realized it, but the original neutral tone was slowly crumbling down. A deep scowl had settled between his eyes, anger was revealing itself.

"So, I killed him and led my tribe in the first Bearhide raids. Amidst those battles, I earned the title of The Vicious. So for the last decades, the Bearhides have raided and thrived, our precious glory returning to us..." Beowulf continued, Aron nodded slowly. He wasn't sure what this story was leading up to, but maybe there could be a way to avert disaster. If his father rallied the islanders in Blitz, then many of their allies like the Triquetra would join. The Bearhides would never have a chance. But of course, it was far more likely for Aron to figure a way to solve things than his father raise a finger to interfere in 'his battle'.

"But no civilization allows itself to be mistreated for long, the southerners are rallying, raising their defenses, they learn from every defeat. What we haven't already claimed is being protected, what was once an easy way to thrive is growing into all out struggles. If I do nothing, the Bearhides will revert back to the original chaotic state I saved us from." Beowulf's anger was replaced by cold determination. Finally, he took his eyes out of the maps and meet Aron's inquisitive gaze.

"If we had cheaper access to supplies or more forces, we would be saved. So I turned to one of our oldest allies, the Sea Reapers and the Outlanders, your father and Gundrum." Beowulf looked more and more frustrated. Aron realized it, why the Bearhides left early in discontent. Why Gundrum looked so furious.

"You wanted our help to take down the southern defenses and to buy supplies from Blitz..." Aron spoke before Beowulf could finish. The chieftain nodded, Aron sighed and shook his head.

"With the constant raids from dragons, we don't have manpower to spare, besides, raiding is against our honor code. My father would never agree," Aron pointed out. Beowulf frowned and shook his head before standing up.

"We'll see about that, a father will do anything for his children, Rhys! Stop overhearing and escort Aron back to his cell, and tell Grim to prepare his wolfship to turn back and send a message to Skarf, we don't have time to spare." At the hulking chieftain's words, Rhys slipped in and gestured for Aron. Knowing that even with the advantage of surprise, just Beowulf's arm was enough to tear him apart, the teen adjusted his coat and followed. As soon as Rhys closed the door behind them, he led Aron back to the cell. This time, the change in lighting took some time before Aron made out the shady forms of the slaves in their cells. Rhys locked the door as soon as Aron entered the cell. Rhys then spoke softly, too softly for the slaves to hear but barely loud enough to be heard by Aron.

"Get ready Sea Reaper, next stop, Grisly Island,"

 **A/N: So, proud to say I'm looking forward to setting up villains with motives better than the stereotypical "I'm evil, hanaha," or "Gonna go to war for kicks, yay!". Proud to fully introduce another submitted OC, Rhys the Traitor from Kennyisdead. So, as you guys can see I fully intend to build an expanding words of dragons, Vikings and who knows, maybe other forces hinted in this chapter. I'll always eager to hear(read) your thoughts and considerations so don't forget to drop a review! See you guys next chapter!**


	5. Grisly Island Arc: Upon bloodied shores

A/N: So, more Viking V. Dragon this chapter, albeit in another way. More bloodshed, you have been warned. No case anyone cares, I'm still accepting OCs.

Aron was never much of a seamen. His father had taken him to fish and occasionally on diplomatic missions yet on a self sufficient island like Blitz, the chieftain's heir rarely ventured out of the land but even he could tell when Loki's Pride docked. The slaves huddled together, they had no idea what would happen next although Aron had a vague idea.

Three armed Bearhides came down, unlocking the cells and gesturing for the slaves to leave. Two were checking each slave as they huddled out of their cells, another was getting Aron. The Sea Reaper was taken first, after all he wasn't meant to be sold, he was a hostage. When he climbed up, he saw them. Although only 3 warriors had went down to retrieve the slaves, 5 were awaiting with weapons drawn on the chance one tried to escape. Aron held a flash of pity for anyone who believed now was the time to make a go for it.

Yet the little worry he held for the slaves soon was overwhelmed by his relief when he got to the deck. Seeing sunlight and feeling the sea breeze once more, it was almost like he was back at Blitz. Alas, Grisly Island was very, very different from his home island. He had been mistaken, Loki's Pride hadn't docked. The Bearhide's harbor was designed solely for wolf ships, instead the galleon had dropped it's anchor and closed sails, leaving the ship to float a few miles off shore. Several smaller boats were being taken out of another set of stairs.

Smaller than wolf ships but big enough to carry 10 cramped Vikings and slaves. Back in Blitz, a plank had been used by the Bearhides to go into the docks. Now? Aron hoped they didn't plan on just pushing the boats filled with people, it would be chaos. Aron soon saw Beowulf, he was talking with the kid with sunken eyes, Rhie? No Rhys. Surprisingly, they looked far less hostile judging the Bearhide's insubordination earlier. Aron noticed a wolfship approaching from Grisly Island. A rope was cast down to help one of the Vikings to climb up. Beowulf used his powerful arm to help the man climb aboard. A sly figure, with a body designed for running rather than fighting.

"How did things go on Triquetra?" Beowulf asked the man. Like most Bearhides Aron had seen so far, the runner wore a thick leather vest and kept several hatchets on his belt. Aron frowned in concentration as he tried to hear more. Triquetra Island was home to several tribes allied to Blitz. Alas, his guard was taking him to the opposite side of the conversation, to wait for after all slaves were transferred. Aron turned to his guard, he was big, almost as large as Beowulf.

A clean head with baldness that reflected sunlight, cold hard eyes that surveyed the ship with a critical outlook and arms strong enough to rip a boar's tusks out, he was an ideal guard. Two short swords were strapped to his back. Aron had tried dual wielding before, alas wielding two heavy swords at the same time was troublesome. For most it was easier to put all their strength and balance a single weapon rather than manage two. This man didn't look foolish, so either he carried a spare, or he had a very steady grip and solid training.

"So, what's your name? Can't call you watchdog for long," Aron offered, he knew that if he wanted answers, at least familiarizing with the hulking man was a start. Those fierce brown eyes bored down on him. Aron had heard from his father that the worse enemy were the big ones that didn't talk. At least it was easy to discern what the loud ones were thinking. A few moments passed before a weary, yet strong and decisive voice revealed itself.

"Wulf the Loyal," Three words, it was a start. As slaves were brought out and taken to the ships, a contraption of ropes and mechanisms lowered each boat down to the sea. At the harbor, another set of Bearhides took the slaves inland while the Bearhide escorts returned to take another set of slaves back. Thankfully, none struggled, it would mean a cold bath of saltwater at least. Wulf had been surveying the ship when he began to squint. Before he could talk, another voice called the alarm. Aron soon noticed large dark shapes in the water, very fast shapes.

"SeaShockers!" The single cry was enough to make the rowers move faster, Grisly Island was minutes away, but there was no time to climb back aboard Loki's Pride. Vikings aboard took out long throwing spears and ran to the sides of the galleon. Wulf led Aron away from the sides, closer to Beowulf and Rhys. The red haired chieftain was barking orders furiously, men scrambled and shouted cries of warning, the tension was building up. Then, an almost musical collection of clicks broke the silence and finally, Aron saw them emerge.

The dark shapes were approaching the boats, finally, one of them surged from the sea with a victorious cry similar to dolphin's. The deep sea blue cartilaginous skin shone in the sunlight. The dragon had the body shape of a manta, with two reptilian heads with ridge filled mouths. It was almost beautiful, if what happened in the next second could be forgotten. The image would haunt Aron's nightmares for days to come.

The dragon's huge form crashed upon the ship, the twin fins decorating it's back tearing the boat apart. Aron wanted to get his harpoon and help, but there was nothing he could do. Spear throwers sent the long projectiles with reckless abandon. Some spears sunk harmlessly into the sea, others found their mark, digging deep into the bodies of the two headed dragons. Alas, too late for the Vikings and slaves from the sinking boat. They trashed, they screamed, SeaShockers lived in pods, they fed in pods.

Aron had never seen them before, but he had heard from the elders's tales. The sea blue water soon became blood red, occasionally a tail or wing emerged from the waters amidst the feasting of the pod. ShockJaws were dangerous enough, lone predators armed with aquatic and aerial prowess and bioelectricity. SeaShockers? Each was armed with an unknown sixth sense(sonar), thick shark-like skin that could break through solid ice, one of the fastest swimming speeds of the dragon world and electrical power compared to a swarm of electric eels.

Yet as more spears were thrown, the red blood became a mix of human and dragon. The horrible display ended a few minutes later, the dark shapes dispersing into the depths. Loud, sobbing wails were heard from more distant boats. The slaves remaining on Loki's Pride were frenzied, now desperate to remain aboard. One of them, a young woman, escaped the crowd and ran straight to Beowulf.

"Please! Have mercy!" The gray eyed woman begged, her frail form barely able to clutch Beowulf's arm. Tears flowed endlessly from her puffy bloodshot eyes. Aron had never seen someone so broken and desperate since most vikings would rather die than fall in such a state. Before the Bearhides could drag her back to the others, Beowulf twisted her arm and forced her to her knees with a single arm. Gone was the tired but decisive chieftain doing what he could to save his tribe, this was Beowulf the Vicious.

"Learn your place! The SeaShockers have already eaten, but if they happen to see someone floating and bleeding..." Beowulf raised his prosthetic. The fangs and claws compromising the blade sparkled like crystals. SeaShockers were like wolves, they wouldn't let an easy meal go to waste. Amidst submissive cries and sobs, the woman was dragged back to the enslaved crowd. Aron looked surprised at Beowulf, his expression was hard. But Aron had seen his father wearing the same expression, tribesmen had perished and the short hatchets and swords had been useless when SeaShockers tore them apart. But a chieftain couldn't show grief, specially in front of people he had been trying to break.

The next few hours were a blur, people were taken to the boats, lowered to the sea and the taken to Grisly Island. Aron had heard of it before, and even recalled Beowulf's earlier description. The Bearhide wasn't kidding. Bearhide Village was big, like Blitz, some houses were torn down from dragon attacks yet others prospered, greater than anything found in Blitz. Buildings of stone and wood made up most of the village, and the village itself covered great part of the island, making it more like a town on top an island.

The rest were formed by jagged rock formations and small pockets of forest. From the distance, Aron could see two gigantic buildings, the first was carved from rock, the Mead Hall and the other... Aron had no words to describe it. Even from so far away, he could make out the heavy stone structure and the dome covered by a network of iron pillars and chains.

"The arena, might not be as sophisticated as the Eye of Odin, but few arenas can house so many fighters and serve as a prison, the official name is Thor's Pleasure, but most locals call it the Slaughterhouse," Wulf had followed Aron's vision. The teen nodded, in his position, he would either be sent to stay with Beowulf as a 'guest' or he'd be sent to the so aptly named Slaughterhouse. With the sun soon to set, Aron had never been one to keep track of time but by now, at least two days had passed since that fateful night. He knew the chances of rescue were minimal, so he needed to learn as much as he could before he could try staging an escape. Until then, it would be better to go along. The more attention he got would make any future attempts harder.

Loki's Pride bobbed gently as Aron, Wulf, Beowulf, Rhys and a few other Vikings were lowered down on a boat. No one talked, Rhys was looking out into the distance, deep in thought. Beowulf and Wulf had their eyes on the water, the others were rowing as hard as they could. Each moment spent meant another chance for the SeaShockers to return. Finally they reached the harbor. Only slightly larger than Blitz's, it was designed to hold the hundreds of wolf ships belonging to the raiders rather than accommodate merchants. The Bearhides gave respectful nods as Beowulf left with some of his followers to deal with something. Rhys was greeted by a shy gray eyed boy, who to Aron's surprise, carried a short sword at his waist. Wulf led Aron through the village. Night was already beginning to overwhelm the day.

"So... What kind of dragons live around here?" Aron asked, if he had to get into the woods, he'd like to know what kind of creatures awaited him there. Wulf didn't answer, taking him straight to Thor's Pleasure, better known as the Slaughterhouse. Aron could barely process the sheer size of the structure. He estimated half of Blitz could fit inside of it. His wonder was shattered when Wulf dragged him along, going past the great main entrance, instead, to a small fortified building next to it. Two guards nodded as Wulf led Aron in. The building was devoid of furniture, save for a table and a few stools were a group of guards were playing some sort of game, a dry torch hanged on the wall and a fireplace burned bright. Wulf led Aron to a wooden door that looked like the entrance to a storm cellar. Taking a dry torch from the wall and lighting it up in the fireplace, he opened the inner cellar. Aron was led down the stairs before gasping, it wasn't a cellar.

"No way..." Aron had seen a cave complex before, but this? The building led towards a series of tunnels that ran beneath the Slaughterhouse, several iron gates on the sides of the tunnels seemed to go on forever. Faint torches gave minimal lighting, yet Aron could see enough. He could hear curses from criminals, insults and challenges in a foreign language by slaves, in a few cases, the furious roar of trapped dragons. But most cells were silent, either lacking captives, or just broken beings. Finally they stopped by a marked gate, a single key connected to it.

Wulf took the key from the door and opened it wordlessly. Aron didn't need words to understand, with a deep sigh he entered the cell. Wulf shut the gate before the loud clank of the keys locked it. The light inside was minimal, just faint torches burning outside of the cell. Oddly, it wasn't stone, but several steel bars that separated his prison from the other cells. The cell on his left empty, but the other... A dark shape stirred as it moved, suddenly, red eyes that shone in the darkness snapped open.

Aron had never seen such dragon before, but soon the loud clang of steel bashing against something rattled him, in pure instinct, he rushed to the opposite wall. A massive tail had slammed on the bars, yet somehow, the bars stood. A disgruntled growl came from the dragon before it settled down. It was hard to make out details in the darkness, but Aron could vaguely estimate it was bigger than a moldruffle but smaller than a grapple grounder. Bearing the stoker class' build, with strong back legs, short forearms and a large head connected straight to the main body. A faint clicking resonated from the dragon's forearms.

The sound of dragging metal revealed a chain attached to one of the dragon's leg, making it unable to move more than a few steps in the already packed cell. The red eyes shone, like any other dragon Aron had seen, it held the confidence and intelligence of an apex predator. Yet there was something else in those eyes, not the feral hunger, nor the desire to tear something apart. Was it boredom? Curiosity? Either way, the dragon settled down, keeping those tiny red eyes locked on him. Aron sighed, it was going to be a long night...

A/N: Yes! One of the scenes in this chapter were amidst the first I envisioned for the story! While no new submitted OCs were introduced, a few more will arrive soon. I fully intend to make a map for Grisly Island soon and once I get enough islands, make a full map of the southern archipelago. For now though, I'll leave an author note when the map of Grisly Island is submitted. Don't forget to leave your thoughts and comments in a review so I know where to improve!

PS: Special thanks to Kennyisdead for beta reading this chapter.


	6. Grisly Island Arc: Suicide Crew

**A/N: Still taking in OCs, I also have a special announcement in the author notes at the end. If you submitted an OC, please check it out and reply to it. Also, would you guys be interested in more maps like I did with Blitz? Like a closer look at Sea Reaper village and other islands?**

Four days! Ham couldn't believe his friend and future chieftain had been kidnapped just four days ago. Much to Skarf's fury, none of them could identify their attackers. Didn't take long though, before a Bearhide messenger revealed Beowulf's demands publicly. If not for Aron's life on the line, the villagers would have likely left the messenger to deal with the berserkers.

The deal was simple, in exchange for half of Blitz's supplies, the Bearhides wouldn't kill Aron. Skarf had asked time to counsel with the elders and did so for the rest of the day. Before he could announce his decision, a messenger from another island came with dire news. Skarf promised to reveal everything that night at the Pork's Eye. Ham had been eager to get that Bearhide to spill or see his friends again, with tensions high, he'd like to at least discuss what happened. Alas after Aron's kidnapping, Erron was pretty much stuck in Outlander village until Gundrum decided it was safe. As for Kelda, the girl was stuck helping out her parents in the farm before she accidentally injured herself and had to be taken to the Islet of Frey.

They weren't the only ones busy, Ham's father, Stark the Chopper, had put him to work nonstop at the shop. The young Viking never felt much when beheading chickens and cows, he'd been doing it his entire life. He had always been taught to respect life, but with his growing impatience and frustrations, the livestock met a swift end at the butcher's knife. Finally, the familiar jingle of the bells over the front door caught his attention. The butcher shop was no Pork's Eye, a small open area with a wooden floor for the customers, then the desk that separated to the kitchen and the basement's entrance. A few chairs were left for busier days and the heads of two red grapple grounders hung on the wall, gems having long replaced their rotting eyes that seemed to glare down at the entrance of the shop.

"Well I'll be damned," Ham glared furiously at the newcomer. It was the Bearhide messenger who aside from the crew on the wolfship was the only Bearhide currently on Blitz. Broken noses were far too common amidst Vikings, Kelda's crooked nose, Stark's partially severed one, but this guy? Aron had seen pigs with better noses than the Bearhide's, a broken mush of flesh that had been punched in so many times it wasn't even worth fixing. Didn't surprise Ham though, Aron often called him a violent person, it was true, a unstable temper, once he snapped he lashed angrily. Stark said something about his great-grand uncle being a berserker but Ham had just a temper, right? Well right now Ham was more than eager to use it. Yet, not only was Aron's life at stake, but the man was big. More likely than not an experienced brawler considering his lack of major weapons aside from a collection of heavy iron rings on his right hand.

"I'd like to order a few pounds of salted pork, we'll need for the trip back home tonight, can't expect the new supplies to arrive mid trip can we?" It seemed like the man with the crumpled nose recognized him too as a cruel smirk spread across his face. The Bearhide rested an his arm on the counter like he owned the place, Ham had half a mind to chop his arm off, make sure he got to look a little more like his damned chief. Yet the messenger made clear that if any harm came to him or his crew, Aron would pay. Through gritted teeth, Ham went for the storage. When he was younger, he often saw the basement, with all the hanging carcasses and low temperature as nightmarish, now? He could only grunt in annoyance when one of the hanging pig corpses touched his shoulder as he made his way through as he quickly inspected the salted meat, to his displeasure, it still looked edible. By the time he got the barrel, Mr. Wrecked Nose was tapping his fingers impatiently on the counter.

"There you go, it's about ten silver," Ham informed the Bearhide. Truth to be told it actually cost five, but there was no way for the large man to know. Yet the man shook his head with confidence, taking the box with both hands. Ham moved to stop him, butcher knife in hand, but the Bearhide spoke quickly.

"Consider it an advanced tribute, I'll make sure your buddy remains in one piece," The Viking spoke with a tone of arrogance, freezing Ham in place. Yet as he reached the door, Stark the Chopper entered with a very displeased look.

"Chief has yet to announce his decision, that would be eleven silver," Ham was big, but Stark? He got his title for beheading two grapple grounders at once. While Ham only has the butcher knife in hand, Fleshcarver, Ham's family sword, rested on Stark's side. The weapon was customized, more like an elongated butcher knife than the usual sword. The Bearhide's cockiness diminished almost instantly. Stark wouldn't have to bother unsheathing Fleshcarver, those meaty fists were more than enough to crush the messenger and make his nose flatter than a pig's. Forgetting Ham's previous pricing, he quickly took out 11 silver and handed them to Stark before running off with the pork.

"Did you poison it?" Stark asked his son, a dark smile on his face. Ham had only recently managed to discern when his father was joking and when he was serious. Thankfully, he was joking. Ham shook his head, Outlanders might be poison experts but Sea Reapers? They prided themselves with direct combat, taking enemies head on and coming out bloodied but victorious. While they'd never complain when it saved their lives, most Sea Reapers would never accept victory due to poisoning.

"Good, can't lose time telling the chieftain why those scumbags aren't bringing his son back, the meeting is that sun down, go have a look around Hamuld, I'll handle things here," Stark nodded before dismissing Ham. The meaty young man eagerly left after disposing a bloodied vest and taking off his leather gloves. Last but not least he took the mask he has left by his axe. He had bought it from the traders a few days ago, it was carved to reassemble a skull, with an elongated opening for the nose and a cruel grin. Unlike most Vikings, Ham disliked face paint, it reminded him too much of blood stains. Rather than cover his face, he hanged it on the left side of his head. In the midst of summer, there was no need for his cloak so after letting his axe hang from his belt, he rushed out to fresh air, free of the smell of blood and pigs.

The village was busy, there have been no more dragon attacks but the villagers were on guard. Experience made it clear that dragons would usually strike every four or five days, but no Sea Reaper would allow themselves to be caught off guard. But the real tension caused by the setting sun was the upcoming meeting. Blitz was self sufficient, but if forced to give up half of their supplies continuously... It would be a tough winter. Ham just walked, he'd never make to the Islet of Frey or Outlander village and back in time for the meeting. His best hope was having Gundrum bringing Erron for the meeting. Unlikely as that was, Ham could still hope.

Lost in thought, Ham made his way to the harbor before noticing a gathering crowd. Strange looking ships were docking, they weren't wolf ships nor galleons. Ham looked a bit surprised, he had seen these strange ships, formed of wood and metal a few times before, but never in such numbers. Tridents, the signature vessels of the Three. While many viking tribes were patriarchal, others like the Three were matriarchal, with the exception of the fourth group, the recently allied Nomads. A few years ago Ham had heard they had once been a mighty empire, now they lived alongside the Triquetra in their island.

"Odd, they usually come and go in small numbers, I hope we don't have have any more trouble," As always, Erron's frail form was unnoticed by Ham until the last possible second. The short albino had his hood and goggles set, some elders considered Erron to be cursed due to his weakness to sunlight. Yet, seeing him challenge his weaknesses and come out on top, Ham only saw strength. Yet, Erron's comment was accurate, the Three were close allies, their alliance with the Sea Reapers was friendly, but as far as Ham knew, not many Sea Reapers ever visited or spent long in their islands.

Soon enough, the armored figure of Skarf could be seen at the forefront of the crowd, with his rare helmet under his arm, his balding black hair barely waved with the sea breeze as he greeted one of the newcomers. The two looked identical, yet Skarf was a head taller and the newcomer had three claw mark scars starting beneath his eyes and ending near his cheekbones. The man was accompanied by two women, one was old and fierce, carrying a large scythe. The other was younger, around Skarf's own age. They were soon followed by two girls and a young man, all three around Ham's age.

"Odd, if Thyr is here, I wonder where Juniper is? She's going mental when she finds out what the Bearhides did," Erron squinted, but caught no sight of a third female. Skarf exchanged a few words with them before ordering the crowd to disperse and leading them out of the harbor. The other ships docked or dropped their anchors around the harbor. Oddly enough, it didn't look like they were planning to stay for long. Ham and Erron moved out of the way as Skarf led the visitors past them, while the adults kept neutral expressions, the two girls looked like they had cried recently, yet now they moved with furious intent. The boy on the other hand was stressed, snapping the fingers on his right hand nonstop.

They went past the Sea Reapers and Outlanders without a glance. They shared a look, whatever was going on could be related to Aron's situation and the announcement. Usually, Aron would be there to convince them not to do something stupid, or at least pass them the details. This time? The two headed for the center of the village, to their kidnaped friend's house. Honestly, it was no fortress of mansion of old, Skarf's house had an extra floor yet one of the walls on the top floor had collapsed on a recent raid, efforts to fix it had yet to start. Two Sea Reapers stood guard over the main door, Skarf didn't want anyone overhearing. Yet no guard had Erron's skill. The hooded boy led Ham past the house before they doubled back and went straight to he back, acting like they had real purposes, they moved closer to one of the windows and sat beneath it. Aron had told them that his father usually held private meetings in the kitchen. With a bit of effort, they began to make out the words.

"I always knew raiders were bad news but this? Beowulf's demands are unbelievable! Yet for Juni's sake..." It was a young female voice, likely one of the girls.

"They dared to strike at our heirs, I say we unite our forces and storm their island! Surely we can retrieve them once Beowulf is cowed!" Skarf's lookalike spoke with evident fury. The boy soon voiced his agreement.

"Foolish men! The second they catch wind of our armada, our heirs will have blades in their throats, if not deeper," An old gravely voice interrupted. Likely the lady with the scythe. The other woman argued, deciding they should try bargain more. Arguments erupted, finally, a loud bang of metal splintering wood silenced them.

"We are leaders, not children, it's time we behave as such," It was Skarf, the Sea Reaper's words cutting deeper than any swords. The others lowered their tones.

"It's your son and niece brother, surely you don't intend to abandon them," It was Skarf's lookalike, brother apparently questioned the chieftain. Erron and Ham perked up to hear, this was the announcement Skarf would make that night, and they would be the first to know of it!

"My son got into this mess, he's going to get out of it, one way or another, not a single patch of Blitz's harvests will be given to Beowulf," Skarf's words took the boys by absolute surprise. They knew the chief often made Aron solve problems by himself and was pretty harsh with failure, but this? Was it the father making his son independent or the chieftain who couldn't spare any supplies speaking?

"So you have no intention of getting Aron... Your son, back?" One of the girls asked, her voice seemed calm, but Erron recognized the anger beneath it. A few more moments of silence passed.

"Aron is a tough kid, if anyone can break out of wherever the Bearhides are keeping him and make their way home, it's my son," Skarf replied.

"Now once he gets back with more information, then Beowulf will learn why my tribe is called the Sea Reapers," The Sea Reaper replied, again Ham and Erron had no idea if it was faith in Erron or pride that led to Skarf's decision.

"But Juniper..." Thyr tried to appeal to Skarf's niece. Skarf always had a weakness for his niece, yet this time, he was steadfast in his decision.

"Aron is a good kid, are you sure you'll abandon him to the Bearhides?" Gundrum finally spoke, his voice had no anger, but more pity than Erron ever heard from his uncle.

"My son is capable, soon enough the Bearhides will learn what it means to attack a Sea Reaper, now, is that all you came to discuss?" Skarf finished the discussion with clear finality.

"You know, Heather wanted to come ask you herself, but there are seven granddaughters needing their mother, will you make these poor girls grow up without their mothers like..." Thyr made one final attempt to convince his brother, a loud sound cut him off.

"You will not turn this on Ragna! She died for what she believed in like a true Sea Reaper! My wife is one of the greatest heroes of this tribe! Aron grew up because of her sacrifice!" Skarf rarely snapped, Erron and Ham internally recoiled at hearing the fury, the grief, and the anger in the chieftain's voice. Finally, it looked like the message was clear, Sea Reapers would make no attempt to please the Bearhides or try rescuing Aron. The discussion slowly turned to how to deal with future Bearhide aggressions, at this point, Erron and Ham drifted off.

"Leaving Aron to his fate... Chief may say it but... He's a friend," Erron was the first to break the silence, Ham nodded. Yet unlike Erron, he had a very clear idea of Blitz's current situation. Sharing half of their supplies wouldn't just make a tough winter, they had already lost and would likely lose more to dragons in the coming weeks. If the village planned to merely survive, they needed everything they had. Yet Erron was right, there was no way they could abandon Aron. The heir was good, but to single handedly escape an island filled with hostile forces? That was pushing it.

"We will need a ship, and a crew," Ham finally spoke. They knew what Aron would do if either of them had been taken, no way they'd abandon their friend.

"Kelda will probably jump at any chance of payback at the Bearhides, Sweyn maybe? He did save Aron's butt last raid..." Erron continued, arms crossed, deep in thought. Ham was never much of a thinker but even he was absorbed in thought, they would need five trustworthy people who'd be willing to go against Skarf's direct orders. They did consider asking for the Three's aid but they didn't really know their leaders that well. In the end they settled with one other person, and decided to work extra to cover the missing slot, no time to find anyone else.

"Actually, I'd be willing to tag along," A calm voice made both of them jump before turning to see the overhearer. Ham couldn't recall when he saw the boy before, but something about the black braided hair and his weapon seemed familiar. Aside from the Three's notorious Morrigan the Reaper, the old chieftain of the Triskelion, few Vikings wielded scythes. This boy had the curved blade connected to the tip of the stave, making it more like a spear with an oversized blade and a few gems decorating it. Yet nothing about the boy spoke wealth and power, his skin was pale, although far from Erron's own.

"Gleb the Siren right? The guy who killed the Death Song?" Erron recalled the boy who appeared a few years early in Blitz. Apparently he had been left in the woods as a child before a merchant found him and adopted him for a few years before Gleb finally returned, earning his place with his birth tribe by slaying a death song that had began plaguing Outlander hunting grounds a few months ago.

"That's me, so when are we leaving?" Gleb questioned. By all rights Gleb was a full member of the Outlanders, yet he chose to spend most of his time away from their small village and into the wilds. Ham was more than eager to fill up the spot, however...

"Why? You barely show up around Outlander Village, why go out of your way in a nearly suicidal mission for someone you never even talked to?" Erron asked, crossing his arms. As of now the outlander was a wildcard, considering the dangers they were about to face, a wildcard couldn't be a good idea.

"I heard what you guys were saying, if Skarf is abandoning his own son..." A dark shadow cast over Gleb's eyes, despite his frail form, his fists were clenched tightly. Ham wasn't sure what Gleb meant, but Erron did. Gleb's parents had left him to die, just like Skarf was doing to Aron. That motivation was fine for Erron.

"My dad has an old wolfship we use to go fishing sometimes, we can gather everyone while the adults are in the meeting, something tells me Skarf's decision won't be a popular one," Ham finally settled, Gleb went back to Outlander village to gather the heavy cloaks they'd need to disguise themselves at Grisly Island, much to his own dislike, Erron would have to track down Kelda, Sweyn and the other recruit. Gleb had suggested her but honestly, the duo were unsure, but since they needed all the rebellious manpower they could gather, Erron would be going after her.

"Let's hope Skarf doesn't exile us when we show up with Aron," Erron joked before they went their ways, the white haired teen vanishing amidst the carts and working villagers. Gleb followed the suit before Ham went to the harbor. By now, only a few members of the Three remained on their ships, most left for the Pork's Eye or to meet distant relatives. Leaving only a few guards behind, Ham greeted some Sea Reapers as he made his way to the very end of the harbor, were older fishing ships remained. Amidst them, was a wolfship with a boar's head carved on the front. The Drowning Boar, not exactly a full out raiding ship and a far cry from a mighty galleon like Loki's Pride. Even Hagar's old Battering Ram was better, but she was their only somewhat legal option.

Taking a look of the mess of nets and ropes, Ham sighed, he needed to tidy it up before finding someway to smuggle enough food from the shop without his father noticing. Leaving his seax on the side of the ship, Ham got to work. Thankfully the mess looked worse than it was. After finally readjusting the shields to the sides of the old ship, he saw the sun was almost down and with no ominous clouds of wings and flames in the horizon, the meeting would commence soon. His father would likely be there by now. Jogging out of the harbor, the shop was close by. To his surprise, Ham found Sweyn awaiting for him at the shop's entrance. The young man had his bow and quiver on his back and a seax on his belt.

"Good, Erron and the others are helping Gleb with the cloaks, he requested that I helped you moving the supplies," The Sea Reaper explained, Ham nodded before unlocking the door with his spare key. Thankfully, his father had already left so it was a more about not damaging the two caskets of salted meat than it was about going about unnoticed. By the time they returned to The Drowning Boar, the others had just finished settling down, thankfully Kelda had brought more flasks of water. Something that had passed completely over Erron and Ham's heads.

"You know, I think The Insane, will make a fitting title for me after we come back, what are we anyway? Some sort of suicide crew?" A female voice caught Ham's attention. Erron's final recruit for the Drowning Boar's crew, Stellian Everindottir. Her black hair and onyx eyes vanished in the shadows of the torchlight, her dark vest and outfit too difficult to make out in the darkness.

"So how much gold did Erron bribe you with?" Ham asked jokingly as he and Sweyn joined them on the ship and sat by the oars. Kelda was untying the rope and throwing it to the deck before joining them.

"Five silver and a promise," Stellian replied, her gaze hardening for a moment. Erron just quietly helped distribute the oars, due to his small stature in the end Ham helped him out. Suddenly, they heard cries of protest coming from somewhere in the village.

"Guess the chief just made his announcement," Erron muttered as they began to row out of the bay used as the harbor and into open sea.

"Next stop, Grisly Island, we're coming Aron,"

 **A/N: Managed to make a nice reference somewhere in this chapter, congrats to whomever notices it! So, for the announcement, one of my submitters, Lady Kiko-Chan, is soon going to start her own HTTYD SYOC. So we had a crazy idea, I'm proud to announce Legends of Blitz is going to form an expanded universe with another SYOC story, coming soon to Fanfiction, Legends of the Triangle! Starring some characters already shown, yet not all named, this very chapter! Which leads me to my request to all of you submitters.**

 **With the Legends of Dragons universe, I'd like to ask permission to everyone who submitted an OC thus far to allow me to share the forms with Kiko, considering we do have future crossovers planned for our stories and of course, the occasional cameo and reference. Alas, I'd like to have you guys give me a go for sharing the sheets first since you filled them out in the first place.**

 **Several new OCs have appeared or been mentioned this chapter, some weren't named but I'll leave their names bellow and define who they are for explanation's sake. Here it goes:**

 **From Lady Kiko-chan, these characters will play major roles in her story, Legends of the Triangle**

 **-Juniper Silverblood, heiress to the Triquetra Tribe and recently taken hostage by the Bearhides. She's Aron cousin**

 **-Thyr Silverblood, Juniper's father, Skarf's brother and Aron's uncle**

 **-Morrigan The Reaper, head of the Triskelion**

 **-Flidais Winterfang, heiress of the Triskelion Tribe**

 **-Agate The Ghost, chief of the Triskele Tribe**

 **-Amethyst Thunderbone, heiress of the Triskele Tribe**

 **From Insanity's Jewel**

 **-Gleb Skalekoff**

 **-Veidmar Dyr, although young, he's head of the Nomad Tribe**

 **From I'm Crazy and I Like It**

 **-Stellian Umenarii**


	7. Grisly Island Arc: The Slaughterhouse

**A/N: Still accepting OCs. Alright guys, this is it. One of the first chapters I envisioned for this story. A lot of things have been changed and adapted since the original concept, but hopefully it's been for the best. Recent reworks of old ideas have allowed me to integrate so many new ideas and possibilities, all which kick off this very chapter. Alright enough hyping, let's get to it!**

Hours? Days? With Aron's only indicator of time being the shadowed dragon occasional shuffle or adjustment, he had no idea. It was so dark he could barely make out his own hands as he settled in the empty cell's corner. Thankfully he had managed to relieve himself before at Loki's Pride, but now? Aron wasn't sure about how long he could hold it in. The red eyed dragon had made no other hostile attempts after the first, on the contrary, it seemed to relax. The mass of black scales had settled by the bars that separated their cells, it's eyes didn't show the previous animosity, only... Pity? Longing? Aron couldn't tell. Finally, the sound of movement outside caught Aron's attention.

The sound of jingling keys was almost as musical as the dragon's low growl was terrifying. Finally, it wasn't Aron's gate, but the dragon's that opened. Oddly, the dragon didn't lunge, only glared at the three Bearhides that entered the cell. Finally, Aron saw the beast with the torch's illumination. Needless to say, he was surprised. With it's pure black scales and silver markings, the red eyed dragon tried getting into its attack position, alas it's three tails were forced to remain braided by a heavy iron ring. Another ring kept the dragons wings forced together and both were connected to thick iron chains trailing to the wall of the cell.

"Alright boy, time to get to work," The first Bearhide announced. Now that he in the torchlight's glow, Aron took note of his attire. A long well trimmed mustache, the Viking was far from the usual raider, carrying several heavy gold rings on his fingers and gold coins on an expensive vest. Even the man's bear fur cloak was connected to his shoulder by golden pins. But the most disturbing feature was the man's right eye, a single golden orb fit into the socket. The other dark blue eye looked down as the other man, a gray eyed slave, slammed a mallet onto a buckler, the sound making the dragon coil back. Before it could recover, the slave rushed to take the chains and connected them to a heavy iron wheel. Aron was surprised by the speed it took, alas, the man with the gold eye and the slave took the dragon through the corridor, leaving the door open.

Aron wasn't sure what to feel, he was by no means a dragon lover. Yet seeing such a proud beast reduced and shackled like that... There was no glory in it. His thoughts were soon interrupted when more keys jingled and his gate was unceremoniously opened by none other than Wulf. The huge man was accompanied by two other Bearhides, a tall woman with reddish orange hair braided like the dragon's tail and another huge man carrying a heavy one sided axe.

A young woman had opened the cell and held a large ring riddled with keys. She was about Aron's age, with fiery red hair and bluish grey eyes. Unlike the other Bearhides, she wore a damaged vest that was more of a bunch of rags stitched together than an actual outfit, a slave. The Bearhide woman shooed her off, with a resentful, but subdued glare, the young lady rushed off.

"Beowulf has invited you to see an event at Thor's Pleasure," Wulf didn't waste a syllable. Aron tilted his head slightly, an invitation from Beowulf was the pretty much their best attempt to judge the situation. With a brief nod he stretched his arms and legs, enjoying the feeling of his own blood rushing through his body without drawbacks before walking out of the cell. Wulf led him in the opposite direction the girl had taken, but the same taken by the dragon and the man only minutes earlier. The dark tunnel soon led into an open cave with two exits and they came upon two sets of stairs. Aron could faintly hear cheering and a growing commotion from one exit and unconsciously headed to it, until a strong hand placed itself firmly on his shoulder.

"That way is the quickest way to die, come on, luckily for us you're getting the guest throne," It was the woman who accompanied Wulf. The man bore an amused smirk while Wulf himself continued to keep his neutral façade. The stairs led on for a while before natural rocks were replaced by arcs. Soon they weren't inside a cave system, but inside Thor's Pleasure, inside the arena of Grisly Island, Inside the Slaughterhouse. After so long in dark spaces with only brief flashes of light, Aron had to step back as he was nearly blinded by the midday sun.

"So the prodigal son arrives, since we're waiting for your father's reply, I found it fit for you to enjoy a little of the greatest arena in the archipelago!" Beowulf was sitting on a throne that faced the side of the stairs. The thrones were evidently trophies from raids of old, made of finely carved wood with gems and diamonds engraved on the sides. Large soft cushions was connected to the bottom and back of the throne. About four other similar, yet smaller thrones remained around it. Two others were already occupied. Two girls, one sat on the throne at Beowulf's left, yet leant further away from him.

Similar to his red haired guard, the girl wore a dark vest and short leather gauntlets. On her forehead was a metal studded leather head band. Although her right blue eye seemed focused on the arena bellow, Aron caught a brief glance at him before she returned her focus. The girl's left eye was mostly hidden by black bangs. Somehow she succeeded in tying her long hair into a single braid. Despite the lying tension, she looked calm, almost bored. Sigrid Margrethedottir, Beowulf's only daughter and heir. Aron had talked to her in a meeting of Chiefs a few years back, he wasn't sure if she remembered it.

The other girl looked far less comfortable, sitting on the throne on the far right of Beowulf's. Aron had never been so happy to see those amethyst colored eyes and that wild wavy burgundy and gold hair tied together into several braids and interconnected by beads marked with strange symbols. Although many would look wistfully at her form, Aron would never see his own cousin that way. Long sleeved purple tunic beneath a dark leather coat with white fur lining around her long neck. Juniper Silverblood, heir of the Triquetra, Aron's cousin and apparently, also Beowulf's 'guest'. Her scowl turned into surprise when she saw Aron, yet soon returned to a scowl as she noticed Beowulf's attention.

"Sit down Aron, I arranged quite a spectacle for you two," Beowulf made no gesture to make the choice for him, so Aron sat on the throne set between Beowulf and Juniper. The dagger on his boot heavy. Alas, he was likely to die in at least ten different ways if he tried anything, best to save his trump card for a better opportunity. The arena was covered in sand, with four gates, each set in a cardinal point. Considering Beowulf's pride, they were likely right over the northern gate. The arena was empty, save for a few walls of wood and a weapon rack right by the eastern gate. So far up, Aron could barely make out the spears, axes, swords and bucklers set. But the crowd, wow, Aron knew most were Bearhides but Grisly Island was legendary for it's arena battles. The stands... Aron counted at least five rows of excited Vikings branding mugs and cheering. A few held strange devices over their eyes.

"Binoculars, we found a prototype in a raid a few weeks ago, my men managed to make more," Beowulf noticed Aron's interested and revealed the device. Twin tubes slightly longer than Aron's hand, lens were kept on both ends. It seemed Beowulf had spares, since his guards distributed them to the others. Sigrid looked at it like it was something she'd just scrapped off her black leather boot. Juniper held it with mild curiosity. Aron was the first to try and wow, before he barely made out the weapon's rack, now he could see each individual weapon with ease.

"Pretty useful when scouting raid targets," Juniper finally spoke, a bitter tone of underlying anger burning through the diplomatic calm. Beowulf just nodded, ignoring the indirect jab, although Sigrid did look away. Aron was eager for a chance to talk with Juniper, maybe plot an escape or at least a plan B. His father might not be coming for him, but the Three? Aron knew the only reason they didn't storm the place was because they wanted to solve things without bloodshed. Yet with Beowulf literally at his right, there was no way to speak privately without being caught. Before they could try though, a loud horn cut through the noise and left the massive arena in silence. On a stand at the opposite side of the Beowulf's stand, a small man with a strange conical object lowered the horn.

"Bearhides and guests! Welcome to the weekly arena fights in the biggest arena in the Archipelago! Welcome, to Thor's Pleasure!" The speaker's voice rang across the arena. The cheers returned, although tentatively. Aron couldn't help but notice several heads turning to Beowulf and his 'guests'. Alas, Beowulf made a small wave with his prosthetic, which meant waving that razor sharp arm over Aron and Sigrid's head. The crowd continued to cheer although not as heartily.

"Today, we have a brand new batch of knights to show us some of that southern courage!" The speaker gestured to the gate close to the weapon's rack. The crowd laughed and jeered. A group of slaves tentatively stepped into the hot sands, Aron could make out the spears of the guards inside the gate. Using the binoculars, Aron soon saw the old man from the ship. His stern face going over the weapons. The others didn't look half as certain, looking at the booing and jeering crowds with fear. Finally, the old man shouted something that Aron couldn't discern and slowly, the four other slaves hesitantly selected weapons from the rack. Although still hesitant and hammered with jeers, the slaves turned to the gate on the opposite sound, roars could be heard.

"Now, the pride of Grisly Island, he's no Night Fury but he's black as night and oh is he furious! The reigning champion of Thor's Pleasure! Three tails, thrice the strike! I give you, hatred incarnate, Hati the Triple Stryke!" The announcer gestured towards the other gate. The bars opened slowly and by the time they were halfway open, a massive black dragon surged out with a challenging roar. It was dragon kept on the cell next to Aron's, but now his tail was unshackled. The three tails spun and split into three hooked scorpion like tails, making him look even bigger. Aron took note of how it tried spreading it's wings, although they remained shackled. Red eyes glared down on the slaves.

Now everyone was focused, dragons were unpredictable. Any more words might take his focus from the easy prey and onto the crowd. The walls of the arena were large enough to stop him from climbing and attacking, yet those were very big tails. The old man shouted something incoherent and raised his short sword, running to face the dragon, two other slaves, young men, followed him. The remaining slave ran away, jeers following them. All had claimed spears from the rack.

"You know, we usually have to offer them freedom to get them this hyped," Beowulf commented as they watched the triple stryke rush forward. The shackled wings left it unbalanced yet he used powerful hind legs and deadly forearms to dart around the wooden walls. The dragon was agile, soon meeting with the old man. Aron watched it all from his binoculars although he knew from the start that the old man didn't stand a chance. Oddly enough, the triple stryke paused upon seeing the old man up close. The dragon walked around the three slaves for a few brief seconds before the old man charged, spear in hand.

Had he blinked, Aron would have missed it, he wished he had. Fast as a bullwhip, the triple stryke's middle tail darted forward, hitting the old man's chest and sending him flying back from the impact, making him slam into one of the wooden walls. Surprisingly, the impact didn't kill the old man, who for the first time, released a scream of sheer and absolute pain. He had lost his spear during the throw and now squirmed in obvious pain, red staining the center of his tunic. That left his comrades unsure of the massive dragon.

"Poison, each of his tails generate a different one. A disobedient slave once told me that it was like his blood was on fire after being pricked by the middle one," Beowulf was smiling like a proud parent. Juniper covered her mouth with her hands in horror while Sigrid averted her eyes to focus on the remaining slaves, was it worry on her expression? Aron couldn't take his eyes off the triple stryke, Hati. The dragon was approaching the squirming old man with his head down. Odd, at such short distance the dragon could easily rip him apart with his jaws. Alas, whatever the dragon planned on doing, the two slaves gathered some courage and charged with the spears. Their mistake, the three tails united into a braid before slamming into them, sending them flying back. The dragon roared and clacked the pincers on his forearms. That's when the remaining slave appeared, he hadn't be running away, on the contrary. Now he charged from behind with a final spear. At the same time the two slaves stood up and made a final charge.

Then the unbelievable happened, the dragon's legs gave away before he rolled out of their aim. As they tried to stop their charge, Hati's tails flashed. All three were thrown back by the sheer force of the slam. Soon they began to show different reactions, the one struck by the left tail was running back to the battle like he didn't have a massive wound on his chest. The one struck by the middle tail squirmed in pain just like the old man, although he was far louder. Finally, the one struck by the right tail was just walking around confused, his spear left on the ground.

"Three tails, three toxins, the crowd loves betting which one he'll use," Sigrid finally spoke just as Wulf's companions exchanged a bag of silver coins. The bald man looked sternly at them before returning to look around the crowd. But Aron's focus was far from the guard, instead directed at the battle. Now the triple stryke was taking his time, he took the man who didn't notice his wounds in his massive jaw and with a sickening crunch, broke several bones including the slave's spine. Yet Hati didn't gobble down the man like Aron had seen some dragons do back in Blitz, instead he hurled the broken corpse onto a nearby wooden wall. Finally he moved closer to the old man and the other victim of the middle tail. He didn't bite them or stab them with his tails, instead, short forearms lunged and with brutal cracks, broke their necks as cleanly as possible.

"Never seen a dragon do a mercy killing," Aron spoke up, dragons back in Blitz were like cats. Proud, vain and just loved toying with their food. Yet the triple stryke wasn't just efficient, he was quick.

"Hati is like a Sea Reaper, no fun unless it's a challenge," Beowulf replied with a dismissive wave of his remaining hand. Even as the crowd cheered, the triple stryke roared furiously at them, obviously disliking the attention. Yet the speaker blew the horn, silencing the crowd and even making the triple stryke step back. Suddenly, a light sound, so far away and barely audible, caught Aron's ears. It sounded like raindrops clashing against rock, a 'pitter-patter' of sorts.

"Hatred incarnate has overwhelmed southern courage! But can Hati defeat the pulverizer? Bearhides and guests, I present thee, Goliath!" The speaker had barely finished when the new dragon burst through the halfway opened gate, splinters flying everywhere. It was an odd dragon, with six stumpy legs and a short tail. Alas it had a powerful upper body and thick forearms. A powerful jaw clenched upon seeing Hati and it soon released a challenging roar. The crowd went nuts with cheers, to Aron's disgust, it seemed that those slaves, who bodies still bloodied the sands below had been nothing but Hati's warmup.

"We usually leave them alone, as you can see thunderpedes are strong enough to reduce boulders to dust," Beowulf caught their attention. Sigrid looked surprised at the new dragon, who was now trying to circle Hati. The black and silver dragon copied him, both making mock charges and testing the other. Juniper looked at the mangled corpses of the slaves, she had grown as pale as Erron as the fight had progressed, her reaction being the polar opposite of the cheering crowd.

"So this... Goliath, is a special presentation?" Juniper asked warily, Beowulf nodded. It dawned on Aron that the Bearhide chieftain had been cheerful, almost eccentric ever since he saw him on the arena. Was that an act for the crowd or for his daughter? Aron wasn't sure he wanted to know.

"Two men got nearly every bone in their bodies broken capturing him, thankfully we found some herbs that keep him drowsy enough to keep him from escaping, though my slaves usually just open the gate and run after letting him loose." Beowulf nodded and smiled like he had just told a joke. The guards chuckled, only Wulf remained impassive. Alas the girls and Aron just looked blankly. Beowulf shook his head and gestured to the arena.

"And you left him in the cell next to me because..." Juniper questioned, she was the type of act calm regardless of the situation, though the recent bloodshed had left her unbalanced. Aron could tell she was getting angry but forcing diplomacy.

"I decided to show you the difference between a drugged thunderpede and an active one, there are plenty of them here on Grisly Island." Beowulf replied in the same diplomatic tone. Juniper frowned before returning her focus to the battle with reluctance. To Aron, the message was clear, running into Grisly Island's wilderness was suicide and Beowulf chose this dragon to show that.

Goliath was the first to snap, rushing forwards with a furious roar. Once again, Hati just rolled out of the way and tried to stab him with one of his tails. The thunderpede was too fast, running past the remaining wood walls like they were nothing. It released a cry of outrage before stopping and turning around, angry yellow eyes seeking out Hati. But the triple stryke was intelligent, rather than charging head on, the strike class predator was going around the arena. Aron used the binoculars to get a better look, Goliath moved slowly, short legs clumsily rotating as the dragon tried to find his foe. On the other hand, Hati was curled beneath one of the remaining walls, awaiting for his opportunity.

Finally, when the thunderpede had his back to Hati, the triple stryke lunged. Thanks to the binoculars, Aron managed to see the dragon twist his thick waist and slam his braided tails on Goliath's back. The dragon lost his balance and fell to the side. Yet, muscular arms helped it to regain footing. Again, if he had blinked, he'd have missed it. The triple stryke lunged, yet the thunderpede managed to notice him, turning to slam a powerful fist against Hati's snout. The force behind was so great that Hati was sent sprawling through the arena, slamming on the wall and leaving a small web of cracks. The thunderpede roared, his knuckle seemed badly torn, like someone had shaved off the scales and even one of his claw had fallen off. But Goliath was furious, the pitter patter of his legs signaling an upcoming charge.

"Stop the fight!" Beowulf hollered, that's when Aron saw them. Around the lower seats, a group of archers had been set up. At their chieftain's behest, they fired arrows at the thunderpede. The dragon coiled back and roared in pain, stubby legs stumbling backwards. Even with the binoculars, Aron couldn't see the full extent of the injuries. Yet soon enough, Goliath dropped on the ground like a rock. The triple stryke was still dazed, his red eyes slowly accessing the situation. Bearhides ran out of the gates like a swarm of ants, soon enough Hati's tail was shackled and he was taken back to the gate by spear tip. Goliath on the other hand, Aron noted the steady breathing. The lumbering creature was dragged by four massive Vikings. Some people booed but most remained silent. Challenging Beowulf was never a smart choice.

"Can't lose your best fighter can you?" Aron asked with the hint of a snark. Beowulf had made a mistake revealing the dangers of the thunderpede, a dragon meant to be a threat. However, it also made it a threat to the Bearhides. The triple stryke on the other hand was a prime specimen. Being held next to little chance for trouble. The black and silver dragon gave a final roar before being muzzled and dragged back through the gate. The thunderpede left deep marks as it was dragged through. Juniper looked at the captive dragons with a mixture of relief and pity. Odd, some Vikings would call them mere beasts. Aron had a deep respect for other species, his father even taught him how and allowed him to train a hunting dog a few years back. Alas, for Vikings, dragons shouldn't be considered mere beasts, they were the enemy. So why was Juniper relieved? Why did Hati look so curiously at him earlier? So lost in his wondering, he only noticed Beowulf's scowl when it was too late.

"Take them back to their cells, their tribes should send their replies at midday, if not... We'll see how hatred incarnate goes against Sea Reaper and Triquetra stubbornness," The chieftain spoke the last part so quietly that only those present heard. Sigrid's expression turned to outrage, yet she didn't defy her father. The guards attempted to raise the two heirs yet, angry but prideful, Aron and Juniper rose and slowly joined their escorts. Juniper mouthed something to Aron, but the Sea Reaper couldn't make out the words as they were led opposite ways. The way back was even darker, now that Aron had adjusted to the light. It seemed like the big events were over, the sound of footsteps over him revealed a large group leaving the Slaughterhouse. By the time Aron arrived, Hati was already shackled on the cell next to him. The Viking flinched before the gate, the look Hati was giving him... It was just like Moonfang, the hunting dog his father gifted to him. The same eager look. The guards didn't notice it, Wulf unceremoniously pushing him into the cell before locking it.

"So... Hati is it?" Aron asked, the dragon's braided tails moved within the confines of the chains, waving. The dragon wasn't that injured, Goliath's punch might have given it a concussion. Maybe? Triple Strykes weren't native to the southern archipelago, even then, sightings were rare. Some explorers said they were uncommon northwest of the Viking settlements but few Vikings journeyed that way. Thick mists and storms were a constant in that road.

The dragon didn't speak, but dropped on his haunches. The two large pincer like forearms clicking as he poked the cell. Aron wasn't so sure about the dragon anymore, he reminded him too much of Moonfang. Thinking of the old snowy white hound left him homesick. Then a tiny slot opened on the gate of Hati's cell. A fish was passed through. The hungry dragon moved like a snapping whip, taking the fish in a single gulp. Aron had been so surprised by the sudden movement he nearly missed when a clatter on the lower part of the gate caught his attention. A steel slot on the bottom, barely big enough to shove a plate through opened. A frail pale hand passed in a rudimentary plate of food. A big uncooked fish and some hopefully edible herbs.

"You know, I never seen a dragon act so friendly so quickly," A voice, definitely female, commented from the other side of the gate. Aron retrieved the bowl and sat with his back to the gate, eyeing the meal with a hint of distrust. Beowulf mentioned drugs that kept Goliath down, could he try using a smaller dose to keep Aron passive? Despite being a heir, Skarf had no remorse. Aron had adapted from youth to spend days without food. Even when it felt like someone dropped change wing acid on his stomach. Alas, the girl's comment caught his attention.

"You say it like dragons can be friendly," The black haired heir replied, adjusting himself near the slot so he could catch the girl's reply.

"They can, offer them some extra fish or comfort and they stop growling when you get near, never had the chance to try anything without the gate between us though," The answer took Aron by surprise. Last year, Skarf had taken him to the Eye of Odin to see the upcoming challenges. The mentor, Ragnar the Legend had shown him how he kept the dragons alive. The recently captured dragons reacted with hostility every time. Maybe something was different in Grisly Island?

"Hati isn't from these parts though, one of Beowulf's raider found him near the eastern edge of the archipelago, shot him and his rider down, or so he says," The girl continued, she obviously hadn't a chance to talk with someone who would listen in a while. Yet, Aron couldn't help but laugh.

"A rider? Someone crazy enough to go on a dragon?" Aron wasn't a humorous person, yet the me idea shook him to the core. To any Sea Reaper, it was an awful joke. Yet, the way Hati treated the southerners, the way he rolled out of certain death, the same friendly look of Snowfang... Was it a possibility.

"Well, Harard the Gold, Hati's owner, keeps the saddle as a trophy back in his manor, Be... My old master took me there once," The girl hesitated before continuing. Now Aron considered the idea, he looked at his plate. The fish didn't look any less attractive, yet Hati was giving him a... Was it really possible for a dragon to give a puppy-dog eye? The black and silver dragon was difficult to make out the darkness of the cells, alas the look in those red eyes was unmistakable. Aron tossed the fish, thankfully, it flew through the bars. In a single movement, Hati claimed it and gobbled it.

"So, what's your name?" Aron asked the girl, a cocky smile spreading as he saw Hati look eagerly at him. The girl didn't reply, Aron wasn't sure if she was still there. Yet soon enough, a little lower than usual, a reply came.

"Alexis... Alex James," A southerner name, made sense. Aron couldn't see her, but he could see the cheerfulness in Hati's gaze. Skarf would laugh his head off when he heard this tale, Erron would make some awful joke and Kelda would ask how long until she had a shot at this insanity. Something no known Viking, much less a Sea Reaper had ever even considered. An idea so insane even a normal Viking wouldn't consider it. Alas, Aron was the worst type of Viking, a desperate one who had no intention of being made into a gladiator.

"So Alex, wanna try flying out of his Hel forsaken place?"

 **A/N: So sorry for the wait, school is back in full throttle so my writing time has been severely cut down. However I have no intention of dropping this story. Before anyone asks about Hati, don't worry I have an explanation for his near immediate kinship with Aron and his previous rider's origins. Although that's a reveal that will wait a few more arcs, you guys will never see it coming, probably. Don't forget to drop me a review and tell me what you guys thought, next chapter a lot of hinted and previously mentioned things will kick in so get ready.**

 **Also, three new OCs this chapter: Alexis 'Alex' James and Sigrid from Kairi Avalon and the protagonist of the soon to be launched Legends of the Triangle story, Juniper Silverblood**!

 **PS: Valuable lesson folks, never try getting something out of DocX and into a story file. My action resulted into the chapter error from earlier. Hopefully this never happens again.**


	8. Grisly Island Arc: Hope

**A/N: Sorry for the disappearance. School is back and taking more time than ever. However I have no intention of dropping this fic and for those still wondering, yes I am still taking in OCs, PM me and I'll send the form.**

"You were right, your father has no intention of bargaining for your safety," Alex told him through the iron gate. Two days since they started talking, Aron discovered that talking to the red haired slave was the best way to judge the passing of time. Not that he was just contemplating the darkness anymore but... time flew when you were doing something so ridiculously... what did his nieces called it? Oh right, cray cray.

"Told you, he fully believes I can get out of this mess," Aron sighed as he checked his latest meal. Thankfully Alex had succeeded on bringing those extra fishes like she requested. While she had no idea about his dagger, which even now he used to chop the raw food. Though as the red eyes on the other side of the bar could attest, not for himself. Aron no longer sat on the distant side, instead, now he was centimeters away from the triple stryke, the bars barely keeping him from petting the powerful and surprisingly playful beast.

"Can you? I mean, having them not growl at me is one thing but training one to ride it..." Alex asked, a hint of worry in her voice. When he had first made the offer, she hadn't argued, slave life was bad enough that any crazy options seemed like a better option. Alas it wasn't just her, Hati had proven even more capable than he originally believed.

"That's the thing, usually a dog or falcon take at least a few days to fully understand a single command but Hati..." Despite Alex being unable to see what was happening, Aron made a signal with his right hand. The triple stryke collapsed to the ground, playing dead. He snapped his fingers and tossed a trout's head. The braided tail was still chained, but Hati managed to roll up and claim the flying meal with his massive jaws.

"It's like I just remind him of it, either he's really smart or..." Aron tilted his head in light amusement before the idea hit him. Hati wasn't really learning new commands or tricks, on the contrary he responded to all basic commands immediately and after a bit of thinking, Aron realized similar commands were used to direct him to do things that no dog or falcon could.

"Or his previous rider knew quite a lot about the training methods applied by Sea Reapers, which only makes me even more curious to know more about his rider," Aron finished, while a nice percentage of the Sea Reapers raised hunting dogs and a few farmers and huntsmen kept a falcon or two, only the Sea Reapers, Outlanders and very few members of the Triquetra knew the commands. However, only two families in Blitz actually taught and kept record of all commands and training styles used by the common populace. Aron had studied them with his mother when he was young, now, both he and the dragon recalled them. Like sailing, you never forgot how to do it once you learned.

"I can tell you he or she is likely sleeping with the fishes," Alex replied with a chuckle of dark humor. Aron couldn't help but share the sentiment, after all, if not for his or her demise, he'd never be lucky enough to get such progress. Heck he had half expected to spend a few months trying not to die in the arena but this...

"Well by the end of the week I should have taught him a few new commands to help us escape, then it's just a matter of getting to the arena with him, Beowulf won't believe it when I fly out of there," Aron smiled at the thought. Beowulf might be doing what was best for his tribe, but Aron was doing what was best for his health. He was never the vindictive type but a few days in a cell made him consider offering Beowulf a deal, just to rub the fact he couldn't keep a single teenager in a cell. The idea made him chuckle. Alex didn't question it, the silence was drawing on.

"Us?" Alex asked simply. Aron couldn't see her expression but he felt a tone of uncertainty in her voice. Did she doubt him or did she doubt their chances? Either way Aron made another hand sign, Hati sat on his haunches and was rewarded with another piece of the trout. While the dragon feasted, Aron replied with confidence he rarely used when speaking.

"You're the one who had the idea and is risking punishment, if things go wrong Hati and I will just be put back in our cells but you... Just be near the cliffs when the fight begins, not sure how long it will take but be there with the saddle, I tried petting him through the bars yesterday, it's like a shark's skin but worse. We'll need the protection if we indeed to ride him for more than a few minutes," Aron tested his right hand, while the armored glove would conceal the raw skin and he did what he could to wash it with drinking water, it still stung when he focused on it.

"I feel like we're forgetting something..." Alex pointed out, alas, Aron dismissed it as nothing other than some natural worry. He tried a new command, one of the new ones he had been teaching Hati. The dragon's tails struggled to split for naught, in the end, the dragon just left one of his three stingers through the bars. Too dark to make out which one so Aron shook his head and sent the last piece of the trout amidst Hati's voracious jaws. The dragon hadn't eaten a proper meal since capture and was only liking Aron more for it.

"Do your part, I'll do mine," Aron said with a small chuckle. The image of Beowulf's face when they shot into the skies. Unlike the Sea Reapers, the Three would try saving Juniper. Aron would be eager to join them in the assault. That only left one question for the future, alas he shook his head. He'd cross that bridge when he reached it. Alex gasped as she realized what they were forgetting, alas the sound of the guards coming caught their attention.

"I have to go, be careful," Alex whispered before running away, Aron sighed and shook his head. Hati tilted his massive head, looking at him curiously. This time, the jingle of keys were closer. It took the time of his gate being opened and him falling on his back for Aron to realize that it wasn't Hati's, but his own gate that was open.

"Ready for another show?" It was Wulf and his partners, alas now the woman looked at Aron with a cruel smirk. To Aron's surprise, the other man carried his harpoon and short sword. Hati growled at them, trying to spread his tails. Wulf shot him a quizzical glance before beckoning for Aron to stand.

"The Sea Reapers have abandoned you to your fate, round one begins," The woman was almost laughing as Wulf shut the gate and led Aron from his cell and Hati. Aron shook his head as he was taken through the tunnels, this time into the brighter one. To the gate for the Slaughterhouse arena. Only this time, he wasn't going to spectate...

Far from the Slaughterhouse, a small ship settled on the far edge of the Bearhide's harbor. On it, a small group of teenagers wearing heavy cloaks inspected their surroundings as they awaited for the Harbor Master's arrival and inspection.

"Well that was a fun trip," Kelda broke the ice as she polished her atgeir. The weapon had a few new blood stains from their time at sea. The others looked uncertain, Erron was discussing with Stellian in low voices, the subject seemed to leave the larger female uneasy while Erron seemed more excited than worried. The others were glad to see Loki's Pride was mostly emptied out.

"Why aren't we getting a look around yet? Surely Aron isn't being kept at the harbor," Sweyn questioned, his bow was still stringed from the recent battle and his quiver was nearly empty. Out of the Suicide Crew, only he had never sailed before out into strange waters. Gleb shot him a curious look before shaking his head, despite his own wishes, his combat scythe had it's decorative gems removed and hidden inside a safe lock in the Drowning Boar. It was too risky having a Bearhide recognizing them.

"If you want the ship... Appropriated by the Bearhides, than go on, we need to check by the Harbor Master and pay the docking fee, can't get much attention by making a scene, so, what's the plan anyways?" Gleb explained to Sweyn before directing his questioning for Erron with a hint of a nearly unnoticed edge. Erron had already adjusted his goggles again, the obsidian glass lenses concealing his eyes. Stellian shot him a final angry look before inspecting her long dagger, the strange metal glittering in the sunlight. Erron adjusted his cloak and shrugged.

"None of us knows much about Bearhide Village, however we do know they keep slaves, so there should be a prison somewhere right? That or we break into Beowulf's house and hope he's being polite. We saw Fjord's Scythe sailing past us yesterday so at this point their chief knows Skarf has no intention of saving Aron," Erron recalled their failure in the previous day. In order to avoid one of Blitz's fastest ships and maintain course they had to take the long way. The way where a very angry pod of MudRakers lurked. How they escaped was a mystery even for them.

Soon a man with burnt skin and a scraggly beard that spoke much of his long days watching over ships approached with a light frown as he inspected the Drowning Boar. At this point Gleb took over, telling the Harbor Master their cover story and negotiating a fee slightly lower than the original price.

"Alright, now we can go," Gleb told Sweyn as he jumped off the ship and onto the harbor. The group took a few moments to adjust to firm solid land. Two days and a half on a constantly swaying vessel tended to take away one's sense of balance. In the end, Gleb stayed to keep an eye on the ship. While it didn't seem like a lot of looting occurred in Grisly Island, leaving a ship unguarded was a test of luck Loki would love to mess with. The others got to work, sporting their cowls to shadow their faces, spread out. Erron and Ham headed for the massive building in the center of the town. Oddly enough, it was big enough to cover a fifth of the village's full size. A crowd was forming at the entrances. On their way, they saw some quiet houses and even a few Bearhides carrying goods.

"Not that bad really, it even looks a little like Sea Reaper Village," Ham pointed out as they made their way through. At that hour of the day, most Bearhides were at home or working. A few kids ran past Erron laughing, playing some kind of game. The albino almost smiled, recalling his own childhood playing tag with the others back in Outlander Village. Alas, they soon reached the massive building. Oddly enough, the entrance was free. Erron and Ham were carried into the crowd. At the end, they couldn't help but gasp. A massive arena, larger than the Eye of Odin and easily big enough to form a small district within. On that day, only a weapon's rack decorated one of the entrances.

"Beowulf," Ham whispered glaring at the oposite side of the arena. Even from the distance, Erron made out the fiery red beard and weaponized prosthetic. But that wasn't all.

"Figures Skarf would send Arn, he really has left no room for negotiation," Erron made out the scarred visage of Arn the Unmoved. In his youth, Arn was notorious for his stubborn and pigheaded behavior. Skarf wasn't just making sure Beowulf was getting the message, he was intentionally, although indirectly angering the Bearhide chieftain. There was also a girl whom Erron couldn't make out sitting with Beowulf.

"Where's Aron though? An event like this... Man does that guy take insults heavily," Even Ham managed to realize what was about to happen quickly enough. The chattering crowds were soon silenced by a horn. A small scraggly man with a surprisingly strong voice and a strange conical device took their attention.

"Welcome for the first match of the day! For the visitors, welcome to the greatest arena in the archipelago, Thor's Pleasure! Today we have some quite exotic fighters to bet on!" The man called as two gates opened, one beneath Beowulf's position and another to the west.

"On the North Gate, we have one of the most talented fighters of his generation, he didn't go through training but he has already bathed in the blood dragons! The heir of the Sea Reapers, Aron Skarfsson!" A hint of irony from the announcer was followed by the boos and jeers from the crowd. They paid for a bloodbath, Skarf was a notorious fighter. Almost a legend in some islands, but Aron? He was good, but he didn't even have a title yet!

"On the West Gate, explorers bought this bad boy a few weeks ago and have been prepping him up for a match ever since! Only the bravest Hairy Hooligans dare to face the trademark of the Stoker Class, Bearhides and guests! I give you..." The announcer continued. A dreadful roar made the crowd cheer even as Aron stepped back. Unlike Ham or Erron, the heir of the Sea Reapers already saw the creature waiting to be freed.

"Give a fiery welcome to Muspellheim's finest! The Monstrous Nightmare Surt!" The announcer's call was followed by cheers as the fiery beast emerged into the arena with a vicious roar. The dragon was the size of a grapple grounder. With two forearms serving as wings. To Erron's disgust, the beast's wings had been torn. Even as the monstrous nightmare tried to fly, it's tattered wings proved unable to lift its massive size. Even so, it looked more than ready to tear Aron apart. Ham looked ready to jump in, but Erron put a hand on his friend's shoulder. If they tried anything the Bearhides would know that there were Sea Reapers who desired to save Aron. They couldn't take the risk. Aron was on his own...

 **A/N: Not sure why, maybe the evil overlord within me but decided to end this chapter here. As I said before school is a bigger time consumer than before so my writing was severely slowed down. That aside I have no intention of giving up the story. Now, some of you might be surprised or even confused as to why Hati is being so friendly. I left a few hints this chapter and on previous ones, not all directed at the Triple Stryke. So while I will only reveal the reasoning several arcs from now, I will leave you guys to guess in comments. Don't forget, reviews and helpful criticism is usually what makes me write more, every encouragement or tip is another push to keep me going. See you guys next chapter!**


	9. Update

So... Yeah not dead. School has become a larger drag than ever before. However, I have never had any intention of abandoning this story. So I'm here with a few announcements:

Chapter 9 is already being worked on, I have suceeded in writing a few lines here and there in the past few months but alas, I think now I can do something truly grand

I'll also be posting this fic on Wattpad with the same name. You can also check my PJO fic there in case you're interested.

Things have not changed regarding OCs, though I'd like to warn everyone that the more detail put into an OC and the more diverse they are from already submitted OCs, the easier it will be to include them.

The Grizzly Island Arc was always meant to be the beginning of this story, and I have no desire to make it it's end. Thank you all for the patience bestowed on me, school is still going to cripple my writing time, but I hope to submit at least a chapter in the coming weekend. I wish I could go faster considering I have plans for several arcs already. Alas, quality must always come first. Can't rush perfection right?

Thank you for your patience, hope to see your thoughts in the upcoming chapter once it comes out.


	10. Grisly Island Arc: First Sparks

A/N: Another apology for the wait, I'm rusty and discovered this website called Oceanofpdf. Long story short, LOTS of free books. Nevertheless, the main reason I took so long after my last warning was so I could try making something that's good. After all this wait, I couldn't just give you guys a crappy chapter now could I? Also it's been a long time, so if any of your OCs is a bit OOC, point it out if you can, I want to improve so criticism is always welcome.

Aron had heard of Monstrous Nightmares before, a few years ago in fact. A group of Vikings from an island called Berk had been passing through and stayed at the tavern. The black haired heir could clearly recall the leader of the group, a loud man who kept shouting his name, something about spitting loud followed by a vocal call of... A gout of molten flame flew in his direction, having no choice but to roll out of the way. Surt, as the speaker had dubbed the monster, might have once been the prime example the Berkian had described.

Not anymore, the once powerful wings were tattered in such cruel way that Surt would never ascend into the skies again. Beneath the flames, Aron noticed that the dragon had his fair share of ribs showing, even the supposedly once golden eyes were a sunk bleached yellow. It reminded him of the draugr said to haunt the wastes of the western half of Blitz. Undead monsters who sought to devour the living.

Aron knew full well that if he got hit by that sizzling liquid that boiled where he had stood moments earlier, he'd be as dead as them. Slowly, he glanced at the weapon rack, several weapons had been set on it. Alas, neither his sword or harpoon lied there. Nevertheless, they were all battered and with rust creeping their edges. From simple axes to long weapons similar to atgeir but with longer curved blades, glaives. Considering his opponent's size, the glaive was the best option. Aron wielded pole arms before, but unlike Kelda, who adapted hers to her day to day, he found the long weapon to be a bother to carry. Now?

Surt growled, taking Aron's attention as he pawed the sand beneath his talons. The dragon glared at his foe with slitted eyes, eyelids nearly shut. Despite it's flashy abilities, it didn't seem to enjoy the brightness of midday. Aron circled the arena, opposite to his burning foe. Until that fire lessened, it was too risky to tackle on this monster. Ignoring his instincts for a second, he looked past Surt, onto the stands.

Odd, there was Juniper, unlike the previous match they witnessed, she looked distressed, even from the distance. Beowulf was there too, his expression unreadable from so far away. But... Sigrid, she wasn't there, the seat taken by himself was occupied by a short figure that even from the distance, Aron recognized. Arn the Unmoved? First Sigrid isn't there, and now the only one of his father's advisor's that didn't approve him was there? Skarf was either trying to anger Beowulf or had chosen someone who wouldn't disobey his orders. Knowing his father, it was both. Nevertheless, the presence of not just a hostage and also an advisor for a foreign village, Sigrid had a duty as heiress to be there.

"Skipping a village celebration? That doesn't..." Aron began, his mind wandering off, in that moment, Surt lunged. Thousands of pounds of flaming muscle coming down with a roar of pure rage and pain. Even as Aron ducked, for the first time he noted the fact he actually noticed pain in a dragon's call. Maybe he'd contemplate the side effects of training Hati later, right now, he had to get that glaive and avoid being fried like fish for the nightmare's lunch.

Elsewhere in the village, individuals were on the move. Like a massive chess game, each of them acted in their own way, unaware of the game they were playing...

Sigrid wore a heavy gray cloak as she walked through Bearhide Village, a cowl hiding her features save for the thin line of her mouth. The cheering from the Slaughterhouse did little to better her mood, she hated the idea of death being cheered on. Flanked by two young men around her age, sporting identical clothes and short axes that comprised their guard uniforms and heavy cloaks like her own, and guided by a pale southern slave, the heiress made her way through her hometown. As usual, it was deserted. The free meal offered at the Slaughterhouse too tempting to deny. Save for the sentries around the village, nobody should be walking around. She noticed two cloaked figures on the street going in the opposite direction as her, travelers perhaps? Probably going to the arena, Sigrid and her guards ignored them and continued on.

Should being the key word. When the scraggly figure with glinting gray eyes offered her the missive, she had been curious. Now? As they entered the far northern edge of Bearhide Village, she wondered if this was a good idea. Even with it's inhabitants away, there was a undoubtable presence in each Bearhide home. Be it the freshly watered plants or simply the lack of dust or dirt around it.

Fierce as they were, Bearhides could be very stingy about falling prey to disease, so hygiene was valued amidst the civilians. Nevertheless, all that liveliness faded in the houses around her now. Devoid of line, some caking up dust for half a decade now. Others had small groups of slaves carrying things around. None spared them a second glance as their guide took them to the house in the center of the small group. The guide stopped, straightening his hunched form before evenly meeting Sigrid's emerald gaze.

"Master demands to meet with lady Sigrid... Alone," Now surrounded by fellow slaves, the figure looked fairly more confident. The guards scowled, reaching the axes on their belts. Sigrid raised her hand, this was a fellow Bearhide, if there was a problem she was the heiress after all.

"Sigrid, this guy got his title for a reason. Leaving you with him..." The guard on the left began, unlike his counterpart, a thin layer of light brown hair had started to obscure his cheeks and chin. Dark brown eyes bored down on the thin slave, powerful muscles coiled on his arms beneath his cloak, ready to force his way in.

"Titus, if just half of what that missive offers is real, I can't pass this opportunity. Both you and Rack wait for me here, try not to bring any attention to yourselves." Sigrid ordered, as much as she liked the duo, she wouldn't dare risk this meeting. As untrustworthy as the man was, his aid could be the key for her plans. Ignoring the guards' frowns, the slave opened the door with a not so calming creak and gestured for Sigrid to enter. With a deep breath to gather her thoughts, she entered the unlit house.

Inside, several weapons and stuffed animal heads decorated the walls of the main room. A specially nasty looking bear had it's face in a permanent snarl directed at Sigrid. No, it was probably set to intimate anyone who entered. Knowing who the owner of the houses was, she guessed it was one of his first ideas. Rolling her eyes, she turned to the young man who sat on a makeshift throne with two armed slaves by his side. Few Bearhides would dare arm their slaves, then again, Grizzly Island was no agricultural island, Vikings usually had one of two southern slaves. A few exceptions were her own family and this man.

"So the future of Grizzly is as... Traitorous as myself," The young man chuckled, there were no tables or chairs for her to use, so she stood tall. Her emerald eyes matching the man's jades, that cruel twinkle of green amidst the whites lined with tiny red veins, barely seen in the moderate lighting. A few of the slaves gave her a curt bow before leaving the room, the two armed ones remained.

"You said you found a way to convince the majority of the tribe to accept an early Rite of Ascendance, talk Rhys." Sigrid frowned, such comment deserved no reply from her. What they discussed would mean the future of their tribe, no room for conversation. So she cut straight to the point. The man known as The Traitor chuckled, and began to tell her a secret that would soon change not just their tribe, but one currently discovered by many and destined to change the archipelago forever more...

The two cloaked figures had moved past Sigrid and her guards, seeing a distinctive lack of people around they lowered their hoods. Kelda and Gleb sighed in relief, neither was used to keeping the thick hoods in the warm weather.

"There's got to be a slave market around here," Gleb muttered, adjusting his scythe as he and Kelda explored the emptied village. Kelda carried her pole arm like a shepherd's crook, after weeks at sea, they were all unsteady on solid ground. Specially Kelda and the Outlanders, who never had spent more than a few hours aboard a ship before this week long voyage.

"We're looking for a tribe's heir, why are you looking for a slave market?" Kelda questioned, shooting him a suspicious glance. As as a farmer, she didn't deal with Outlanders often. Not just that but Gleb was new even in his own tribe. Despite his acts on the short voyage, she didn't trust him. Not even a Berserker was insane enough to join the aptly named Suicide Crew in the last second. He had to have some sort of ulterior motive. If that motive endangered her friends... Kelda wouldn't stand for it. Gleb met her gaze for a brief moment with his teal eyes before rolling them.

"Obviously he needs to keep the slaves somewhere when he isn't selling them. I'm assuming it's a prison, but considering publicity and all..." Gleb replied, letting Kelda finish following his logic. Her doubts temporarily assuaged, Kelda allowed herself a nervous chuckle, when he put it like that, maybe it wasn't such a suspicious idea after all. The pole arm wielders soon frustrated themselves, nothing.

"Come on! There has to be a place where they can display and keep them!" Seeing nobody in the vicinity, Kelda allowed herself a frustrated shout, earning a raised brow from Gleb. Ignoring him, she looked at the houses, much like Blitz, they shared similar structures but had a few modifications, some older than others. Alas, neither realized they had walked to the edge of the village. The shout was all it took for four Bearhide sentries to arrive from both sides. Both had their pole arms at hand, but even as two of the guards raised wicked looking glaives, two others had crossbows set for their chests.

"What are you doing in the border? There's a match going on in Thor's Pleasure!" One of the guards spoke up, like the other guards, he wore a thick leather vest with metal gauntlets and a simple cape with the Bearhide symbol etched on it. Unlike the other guards, he wore a fancy helmet with a ridiculous red plume on top like a Mohawk. Gleb frowned, unlike Kelda, he seemed to recognized the design. The blonde girl looked ready to fight, crossbows or not. But Gleb put a hand on her shoulder and gave the guy with the helmet a friendly smile, like a trader on strange docks. The guards gave him an idea.

"Just two wee travelers looking to get a... Unpaid extra hand for our vessel see? Me and my cousin here got lost I'm afraid. Could ye lads point us to the slave market?" Gleb asked. Kelda looked at him surprised, where did he master a Berkian accent? The guards raised a brow in confusion, too surprised to notice Kelda's own. The one with the helmet shook his head before laughing. Seeing their leader react, they followed, lowering their crossbows.

"Are you kids blind? The slaughter... I mean Thor's Pleasure is in the center of the village! Jem, Jack, Jake, you three go back to your posts. I'll escort these two travelers there myself," The helmeted guard announced. The guards smiled and nodded, the one called Jem winking at Kelda before they disappeared amidst the houses. As soon as he was out of sight and got in the helmeted guard's blind spot, she made a gagging expression to Gleb. The black haired boy cracked a smile before Mr. Helmet beckoned them. While Kelda hanged back, Gleb approached the guard.

"Fancy helm you got there, southern smith I presume?" Gleb asked, using his scythe as a walking stick. The helmeted guard nodded, the plume bobbing along his head.

"Got it in a raid a few months back, a small knight patrol was spending the night at the village. Let's say me and the boys got some nice trinkets," The man smirked beneath the helm. Gleb made a comment that summoned a laugh from the guard. Kelda just watched the exchange, fraternizing with a Bearhide? A cruel raider at that? The girl was tempted to scold of confront Gleb right there, alas, she recalled their exchange about the slave market. So far, Gleb had played always a few steps ahead. She wondered what was his move now rather then seethe with anger towards the guard. Soon, they reached one of the entrances to the massive arena.

"So this is where the slaves are kept?" Gleb asked the guard, Kelda couldn't help but looked at the structure with awe. Bearhides were now for two things, slaves and raiding, but an arena like that... There was little she could say against the structure itself. The stones were chiseled to perfection, a mixture of sandstone and other heavier minerals. Such building wouldn't last a week in Blitz, dragons would infest it in a matter of hours. Nevertheless, as the guard told Gleb about how the slaves and curiosities were kept underneath in a tunnel network, how the slaves were sold and exotic beasts displayed, she realized that this arena served not just as a festival location, but so much more. To the Bearhides, Thor's Pleasure was the beating heart to their village. A roar, raw with pain was all but drowned by a roar from the crowd.

"But the best part are the gladiator fights. Free food and entertainment for the hole tribe, even visitors are allowed to see the full might of our gladiators. Alas, since you're looking for some unpaid hand, we keep them held up until they have some use. This way," The helmeted guard led them past the building, to a smaller almost unassuming building. Save for the two armed guards at the entrance. If she wasn't suspicious before, she was now. Vivid images from when she and Aron reached the docks in Blitz nearly a week ago. Those slaves would never fit inside such place.

Nevertheless, with a friendly nod from the guards, the helmeted fellow led her and Gleb inside. That's when she allowed herself to gasp, a tunnel, with a few torches hanging on the wall. The helmeted guard took one and hit it against the wall, sparks igniting into a blaze bright as moldruffle fire.

"We keep it dark down there, it's not like they need to see anything while we aren't there," The guard told them as they made their way down the stairs. Kelda was almost sure they would reach Nidavelir, the dwarf kingdom beneath Midgard but when she got down there, she knew no sentient being, even a lousy dwarf, would accept dwelling in such conditions. The cages were all shut by thick iron gates, while sobs and pleas came from some, others rumbled with inhuman growls.

"We keep the dragons and slaves intertwined, best to keep that southern ego down. You wouldn't believe the noise they make when they think there's even a flicker of hope," The guard chuckled again, then he reached for a ring of keys held in a hook next to the stairway. Gleb dutifully held the torch as the guard went through the keys.

"So, what kind of slaves you kids prefer. The usual bear of a man might overtake you kids, but a scrawny servant wouldn't be much use in a ship... Any preferences? Aside from the usually gray eyes, these southerners have all sorts of skills." The guard asked, inspecting each key. That's when Kelda realized that they didn't just clump those people together, they classified and tagged them like cattle or worse, tools. Gleb continued looked like he reached his limit. Instead of hitting the helmet with his scythe, he took out some powder from his pockets. The guard was too focused inspecting the keys while awaiting their answer.

"You ok? Looks like you had too much to drink," Gleb asked throwing the powder up into the guard's face. The man started to reply, then blacked out, tumbling on the ground before Gleb caught him and adjusted him on the wall. Kelda raised a brow, she knew Outlanders were good with herbs and poisons, but that was just... Sudden? Gleb simply took the keys and frowned.

"Like I feared, the cells are numbered. We won't find him without a guide... Hmm," Gleb was deep in thought, Kelda only then took note of the numbers on top of each cell. Figures they couldn't just find the cage with Aron written neatly for them. Nevertheless, Gleb pulled out the first key and went towards the first cage even as a red haired figure walked past them, shooting a confused look at the guard before shrugging moving on. She looked about their age, but too distracted to give them another thought.

"So what's the plan?" Kelda asked, surely he didn't expect to check every cell? Specially since some had dragons. Such creatures were simply not to be messed with. Gleb spun the keys on his finger as he inspected the first lock.

"Unless you expect our little suicide crew to defeat an entire army by ourselves. I think it's good for us to make use of our time and get some allies," Gleb explained as he unlocked the door and raised the torch. Several young men cowered, the chains on their wrists stopping them from protecting their faces from the sudden light. Kelda shot Gleb a disbelieving look, how far ahead did he plan?

Even as Gleb spoke to the slaves, convincing them to bide their time, the red haired slave, Alex, made their way out of the tunnels. Ignoring the armed guards, the girl took a deep breath of fresh air, wondering how did anyone survive so long without it in mines or in the cages beneath her. With Aron in the arena, she knew what she had to do. Thankfully, Beowulf's house wasn't that far away and it stood taller than any other. The heads of beasts from all four corners carved on the roof. A granite statue of Brass the Burly, founder of the tribe, stood tall before the house. At that time, only Beowulf's family slaves should be present, and they wouldn't be a threat. Hopefully.

Yet, when Alex entered the house she was shocked to see the slaves knocked out and scattered across the wooden floor. On the floor above, she heard people arguing. Alex stepped back, ransacking the chief's house? Now of all times?! Her first thought was to run, abandon this insane endeavor and wait to see if Aron even survived the arena.

"I told you, even if Beowulf was keeping Aron here, they would be at the arena!" A female voice argued above. A male voice grunted, too low for Alex to understand. But it seemed to make the female quiet. Alex moved slowly, even if they were after Aron, the Sea Reaper was fairly clear about not expecting a rescue party. Hati's saddle was kept in the main room to her left, but the key to the lock keeping it in place should be in Beowulf's quarters, upstairs. Slowly, she went for the stairs. Yet, when the familiar sound of a creaking bow reached her ears, she froze.

"Not, another, step," The male she heard before, he was sitting on top the staircase, the bowstring tight and the arrow directed at her chest. Even if he missed her heart, the fall back might break her neck. Alex raised her hands, hoping to look as unthreatening as possible. It wasn't the time to be tough, not with her life at stake,

"I'm stepping wherever I want, we got the harpoon and sword back! Surely he's being kept... Oh, you're taking to her," A burly girl emerged from one of the empty bedrooms on the second floor, her dark onyx eyes boring down on Alex's bluish gray.

"Guess we found ourselves a guide Sweyn," The girl told the boy with a commanding smirk. Alex could only wonder, what did she get herself into?

A/N: I'm thinking about changing my writing for POVs, I'll start experimenting with it should you guys show enough support. Would have posted this chapter earlier but here isn't internet at my grandpa's. Once again, I apologize for disappearing for so long. Thankfully things will start speeding up from here, with the arc finale coming soon, I look forward to your thoughts!

Also on another note, I'm also writing another fanfic, Artur Blaze and the Chariot of Apollo in my Wattpad account alongside this fic as well. Thanks to Wattpad's writing system, you can always go check edited chapters with a few more pictures there if you'd like to see more.


	11. Riders of Blitz, forum's birth

So... insane year that leads to an even crazier one. Rather than let this story fade or worse, leave all the ideas to gather dust. I came up with a solution that should keep Blitz alive, a forum. Riders of Blitz is a search away if you seek to adventure in the world of Legends of Blitz with your OCs and influence the story in your own special way. All who agree to the rules are welcome there.

forum/Riders-of-Blitz/218486/


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